The 

Golden  Treasury  of 
Magazine  Verse 


The 

Golden  Treasury  of 
Magazine  Verse 


Edited  by 
WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


BOSTON 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1918 
BY  SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 
Second  Printing,  February,  1919 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

3&tbgelp  ^orrence 

SPIRITUAL  POET  AND  DRAMATIST 


401098 


FOREWORD 

CT^HE  selections  in  this  book  are  gathered  from  American 
-*-  magazines,  during  the  period  from  1905  to  1917,  which 
embrace  the  editor's  studies  and  summaries  of  contemporary 
poetry  that  have  appeared  in  the  BOSTON  EVENING  TRAN 
SCRIPT.  The  collection  thus  in  part  antedates  the  present 
vogue  in  poetry,  while  representing  the  various  qualities  and 
schools  of  the  poetic  revival  in  its  progress.  The  magazines, 
it  is  clearly  wished  to  be  understood,  have  been  the  source 
from  which  the  material  is  taken.  Some  of  the  poems  have 
gone  into  the  authors'  books,  but  a  good  many  remain  buried 
in  the  files  of  the  various  magazines  —  an  ill-deserved  fate. 
It  may  not  seem  inappropriate,  levying  as  the  editor  has  upon 
the  late  Francis  Palgrave's  fortunately  descriptive  title  for 
his  anthologies  of  English  songs  and  lyrics,  to  call  this  col 
lection,  a  "golden  treasury"  of  magazine  verse. 

If  the  editor  were  to  make  an  apology  for  the  omission 
of  any  poem  that  happens  to  be  a  favorite  with  the  reader, 
he  would  have  to  make  many  such  to  many  readers.  He 
can  only  plead  that,  tastes  and  opinions  are  so  various  and 
opposite,  were  the  reader  or  critic  turned  editor,  he  would 
needs  be  apologetic,  if  it  were  the  custom  of  editors  to  be  so, 
which  it  is  not.  What  an  editor  includes,  granting  the  reader 
the  full  exercise  of  his  own  opinion,  he  certainly  will  not 
break  faith  with. 

W.  S.  B. 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS, 
March  20,  1918. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 


To  the  following  publishers  thanks  are  due  for  permission  to  include  poems 
that  have  been  issued  in  books  having  their  copyright: 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY:  "The  Field  of  Glory"  from  "Captain  Crair.  A 
Book  of  Poems,"  "Flammonde,"  "The  Gift  of  God,"  and  "Cassandra," 
from  ''The  Man  a-jainst  the  Sky,"  by  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson;  "The 
Chinese  Nightingale,"  from  "The  Chinese  Nightingale  and  Other  Poems;" 
"Yankee  Doodle"  from  "The  Conso  and  Other  Poems,"  and  "General 
William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven"  from  "General  William  Booth  and 
Other  Poems,"  by  Yachel  Lindsav;  "School"  and  "Fijht"  from  "The 
Present  Hour,  A  Book  of  Poems,"  by  Percy  Mackaye;  "Barter,"  "The 
Broken  Field,"  "The  Look,"  from  "Love  Songs"  by  Sara  Teasdale;  "The 
Flight"  and  "Comrades"  from  "The  Flight  and  Other  Poems,"  by  George 
Edward  Woodberry;  "Doors,"  from  "Ballads  and  Poems"  by  Hermann 
Hagedorn;  "Autochthon"  from  "The  Great  Valley"  and  "Silence"  from 
"Songs  and  Satires"  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters;  and  "1777"  and  "Patterns" 
from  "Men,  Women  and  Ghosts,"  "Hymn  to  Demeter"  and  "  We  Who  Were 
Lovers  of  Life  "  from  "The  Story  of  Eleusis"  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux. 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY:  "The  Hill-Wife,"  "The  Death  of  the  Hired  Man" 
from  "North  of  Boston,"  "The  Road  not  Taken,"  "Birches"  and  "The 
Bonfire"  from  "Mountain  Interval"  by  Robert  Frost;  "Emilia"  from  "Por 
traits  and  Protests  "  by  Sara  N.  Cleghorn. 

HARPER  AND  BROTHERS:  "Gayheart,  A  Story  of  Defeat,"  from  "Poems"  by 
Dana  Burnet. 

THE  CENTURY  COMPANY:  "The  Night  Court,"  "The  Sin  Eater"  and  "St. 
John  of  Nepomuc"  from  "The  Nijht  Court  and  Other  Verse,"  by  Ruth 
Comfort  Mitchell;  "Landscapes"  and  "  Summo  s"  from  "Challenge"  by 
Louis  Untermeyer;  "  We  Deal  "  and  "  A  Handful  of  Dust,"  from  "  Songs  for 
the  New  Age"  by  James  Oppenheim. 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY:  "To  a  Phoebe-Bird,"  "Train-Mates"  "To 
No  One  in  Particular,"  "A  Thrush  in  the  Moonlight,"  from  "Grenstone 
Poems"  by  Witter  Bynner. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS:  "To  a  Hermit  Thrush,"  "Path-Flower,"  "Old 
Fairincrdown"  from  "Path-Flower  and  Other  Poems"  by  Olive  Tilford  par- 
pan;  "From  a  Motor  in  May"  from  "One  Woman  to  Another"  by  Corinne 
Roosevelt  Robinson;  and  "I  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"  from  the 
"Poems"  of  Alan  Seeger. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY:  "The  Monk  in  the  Kitchen"  and  "Grieve  not, 
Ladies"  from  "Rose  of  the  Wind"  by  Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  "Cradle- 
Song,"  "Harvest  Moon:  1914"  and  "A  Dog"  from  "Harvest  Moon"  by 
Josephine  Preston  Peabody;  "A  Memorial  Tablet"  from  "The  Ride  House" 
by  Florence  Wilkinson  Evans;  "Lincoln"  from  "Some  Imaeists  Poets; 
1917"  by  John  Gould  Fletcher;  "Evensong"  from  "Turns  and  Movies"  by 


0 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

Conrad  Aiken;  "The  Adventurer,"  from  "A  Lonely  Flute"  by  Odell  Shep- 
ard;  "The  king  of  Dreams"  from  "Selected  Poems"  by  Clinton  Scollard; 
"With  Cassock  Black,  Baret  and  Book"  irom  "The  Little  Gray  Songs  of 
St.  Josephs"  by  Grace  Fallow  Norton;  and  "The  Unconquered  Air"  and 
"Indian  Pipe"  from  "  Collected  Poems"  by  Florence  Earle  Coates. 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY:  "Trees"  and  "The  Twelve-Forty-Five,"  from 
"Trees  and  Other  Poems"  by  Joyce  Kilmer;  "In  the  Roman  Forum" 
from  "In  Deep  Places"  and  "The  Poppies"  from  "Life  and  Living"  by 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr. 

THE  MANAS  PRESS:  "Cinquains"  from  "Verses"  by  Adelaide  Crapsey. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY:  "  Sleep,"  from  "  The  Wind  in  the  Corn,"  by  Edith 
Wyatt. 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY:  "Miracles"  from  "The  Ji<?  of  Forslin"  by  Conrad 
Aiken;  and  "Moods"  from  "A  Cabinet  of  Jade"  by  David  O'Neil. 

THE  LYRIC  PUBLISHING  COMPANY:  "Ash  Wednesday"  from  "The  Shadowed 
Hour"  by  John  Erskine. 

THE  LITTLE  BOOK  PUBLISHER:  "The  Clerk,"  from  "Streets  and  Faces,"  by 
Scudder  Middleton. 

THE  FRANKLIN  PRESS:  "He  Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed,"  "They  Went  Forth 
to  Battle,  but  they  Always  Fell"  from  "A  Blossomy  Bough"  and  "Thanks 
giving  for  Our  Task"  from  "The  Feet  of  the  Goat"  by  Shaemas  O  Sheel. 

SMALL,  MAYNARD  AND  COMPANY:  "Song"  and  "Magic"  from  "White  Fountains: 
Odes  and  Lyrics"  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien;  and  "A  Mountain  Gateway" 
from  "April  Airs"  by  Bliss  Carman. 

THE  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  "The  Horse  Thief"  from  "The  Burglar  of  the 
Zodiac"  by  William  Rose  Benet. 

G.  P.  PUTNAMS'  SONS:  "The  Unknown  Brothers"  and  "Letters  from  Egypt" 
from  "The  Shadow  of  Aetna,"  by  Louis  V.  Ledoux. 

RICHARD  G.  BADGER:  "Grandmither,  Think  not  I  Forget,"  from  "April  Twi 
lights,"  by  Willa  Sibert  Gather. 

ALFRED  A.  KNOPF:  "The  Interpreter"  from  "Asphalt  and  Other  Poems"  by 
Orrick  Johns. 

THE  MIDLAND  PRESS:  "Meanwhile"  from  "Barbed  Wire  and  Other  Poems"  by 
Edwin  Ford  Piper. 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  AND  COMPANY:  "Motherhood"  from  "The  Border  of  the 
Lake,"  and  "  A  Statue  in  a  Garden"  from  "  The  Sharing,"  by  Agnes  Lee. 

THE  CORNHILL  COMPANY:  "Over  Ni^ht,  a  Rose"  from  "The  Divine  Image:  A 
Book  of  Lyrics"  by  Caroline  Giltinan. 

NICHOLAS  BROWN:  "Samson  Allen"  from  "Nine  Poems  of  a  Valetudinarium " 
by  Donald  Evans. 

THOMAS  BIRD  MOSHER:  "  On  a  copy  of  Keats'  'Endymion'  "  from  "Lyrics  from 
a  Library"  by  Clinton  Scollard;  and  "Two  Songs  in  Spring"  from  "The 
Voice  in  the  Silence"  by  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

THE  WOODBERRY  SOCIETY:  "  Immortal  Love  "  from  "  Ideal  Passion  Sonnets," 
by  George  Edward  Woodberry. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

THE  ROADSIDE  PRESS:  "  Coming  Home,"  from  "  Western  Waters,"  by  Elizabeth 
Sewell  Hill. 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR:  "  November,"  from  "  Sonnets:  A  First  Series,"  by 
Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher. 

To  Ridgely  Torrence.  Eunice  Tietjens.  Amy  Lowell,  Carl  Sandburg,  Kendall 
Harrison,  John  Hall  Wheclock,  Willa  Sibert  Gather.  Dana  Burnet,  Karle  Wil 
son  Baker,  Bliss  Carman.  Ethel  Syford,  Anna  Spencer  Twitchell,  James 
Oppenheim,  Frederick  Fuu<t,  Margaret  French  Patton.  David  Morton.  Cuth- 
bert  Wright,  Wallace  Stevens,  Charles  Hanson  Towne,  Jessie  Wallace  Huchan, 
Orrick  Johns,  Edith  Wharton,  Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann,  Louise  Driscoll, 
and  Katharine  Lee  Bates.  I  am  indebted  for  the  permission  they  gave  me  to 
include  poems  not  yet  collected  by  them. 

To  the  editors  and  proprietors  of  the  magazines  my  thanks  are  due  for  permis 
sions  to  reprint.  Under  each  poem  is  given  the  name  of  the  magazine  from 
which  it  is  taken. 


CONTENTS 

1.  BARTER i 

Sara  Teasdale 

2.  PATH-FLOWER i 

Olive  Til} or d  Dargan 

3.  HYMN  TO  DEMETER      5 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

4.  To  IMAGINATION 6 

Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann 

5.  Two  SONGS  IN  SPRING 8 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

6.  TREES 9 

Joyce  Kilmer 

7.  LANDSCAPES 9 

Louis  Untermeyer 

8.  To  A  HERMIT  THRUSH 12 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan 

9.  To    A    PliCEBE-BlRD l6 

Witter  Bynner 

10.  BIRCHES 16 

Robert  Frost 

11.  INDIAN-PIPE 19 

Florence  Earle  Coa'.es 

12.  FROM  A  MOTOS.  IN  MAY     ....." 20 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 

13.  A  MOUNTAIN  GATEWAY 20 

Bliis  Carman 

14.  THE  FLIGHT       22 

George  Edward  Woodjerry 

xiii 


0 

CONTENTS 


15.  MAGIC  .   .   . 

Edward  J.  O'Brien 

16.  EARTH 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

17.  THE  ROAD  NOT  TAKEN       .    .    . 

Robert  Frost 

18.  THE  ADVENTURER 

Odell  Shepard 

19.  GOOD  COMPANY     

Karle  Wilson  Baker 

20.  To  No  ONE  IN  PARTICULAR 

Witter  Bynner 

21.  THE  SEA-LANDS 

Orrick  Johns 

22.  THE  NEW  PLATONIST 

Cuthbert  Wright 

23.  EMILIA     

Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 

24.  THE  INTERPRETER 

Orrick  Johns 

25.  THE  LOOK 

Sara  Teasdale 

26.  "IMMORTAL  LOVE" 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

27.  PETER  QUINCE  AT  THE  CLAVIER 

Wallace  Stevens 

28.  THE  UNKNOWN  BELOVED     .    .    . 

John  Hall  Wheelock 

29.  PATTERNS 

Amy  Lowell 

30.  EVENSONG 

Conrad  Aiken 

31.  WAITING      

Charles  Hanson  Towne 
xiv 


CONTENTS 

32.  THE  BROKEN  FIELD     51 

Sara  Teas  dale 

33.  "GRANDMITHER,  THINK  NOT  I  FORGET" 51 

Will*  Sibfrt  Cclher 

34.  HUNGARIAN  LOVE-LAMENT      53 

Ethel  Syford 

35.  OLD  FAIRINGDOWN        54 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan 

36.  MOTHERHOOD      58 

Agnes  Lee 

37.  THE  HILL  WIFE 59 

Robert  Frost 

38.  THE  WIFE 62 

Anna  Spencer  Twitchell 

39.  NEEDLE  TRAVEL 63 

Margaret  French  Patton 

40.  CRADLE  SONG 65 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  . 

41.  BACCHANTE  TO  HER  BABE 68 

Eunice  Tietjens 

42.  THE  SON 70 

Ridgely  Torrence 

43.  WITH  CASSOCK  BLACK,  BARET  AND  BOOK 71 

Grace  Fallon  Norton 

44.  MOODS     72 

David  O'Neil 

45-    ClNQUAINS 74 

Adelaide  Crapsey 

46.  THE  REGENTS'  EXAMINATION ".    .    .    .       76 

Jessie  Wallace  Hughan 

47.  TRAIN-MATES     76 

Witter  Bynner 

48.  THANKSGIVING  FOR  OUR  TASK 78 

Shaemas  0  Sheel 

xv 


*  CONTENTS 

49.  SCHOOL 81 

Percy  MacKaye 

50.  YANKEE  DOODLE 86 

Vachel  Lindsay 

51.  CASSANDRA 88 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

52.  THE  BONFIRE go 

Robert  Frost 

53.  HARVEST-MOON:  1914 04 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

54.  THE  CHINESE  NIGHTINGALE 96 

Fachel  Lindsay 

55.  HE  WHOM  A  DREAM  HATH  POSSESSED 104 

Shaemas  0  She  el 

56.  THE  KING  OF  DREAMS 105 

Clinton   Scollard 

57.  FLAMMONDE 106 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

58.  SANDY  STAR 109 

William  Stanley  Rraithivaite 

59.  SAINT  JOHN  OF  NEPOMUC 112 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

60.  SAMSON  ALLEN - u6 

Donald  Evans 

61.  GAYHEART 117 

Dana  Bur  net  * 

62.  THE  UNCONQUERED  AIR 131 

Florence  Earle  Coates 

63.  A  LIKENESS 132 

Willa  Sibert  Gather 

64.  ON  A  COPY  OF  KEATS'  "ENDYMION" 134 

Clinton  Scollard 

65.  SILENCE 136 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 
xvi 


CONTENTS 

66.  MIRACLES 139 

Conrad  Aiken 

67.  ASH  WEDNESDAY 143 

John  Erskine 

68.  To  A  LOGICIAN      150 

Dana  Burnct 

69.  THE  CLERK 151 

Sc udder  Middle  ton 

70.  A  DOG 152 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

71.  THE  NIGHT  COURT 154 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

72.  GUNS  AS  KEYS:  AND  THE  GREAT  GATE  SWINGS   .    .     157 

Amy  Lowell 

73.  THE  FIELD  OF  GLORY 184 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

74.  FIGHT 186 

Percy  Mac  Kay  e 

75.  THE  HORSE  THIEF       201 

William  Rose  Ben'et 

76.  THE  BIRD  AND  THE  TREE       207 

Ridgely  Torrence 

77-  1777 208 

Amy  Lowell 

78.  LETTERS  FROM  EGYPT      215 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

79.  IN  THE  ROMAN  FORUM 215 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

80.  THE  SIN  EATER 217 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

81.  EYE-WITNESS 220 

Ridgely  Torrence 

82.  THE  GIFT  OF  GOD 227 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 

xvii 


0 

CONTENTS 

83.  MEANWHILE 228 

Edwin  Ford  Piper 

84.  GRIEVE  NOT,  LADIES 232 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 

85.  COOL  TOMBS 233 

Carl  Sandburg 

86.  MEMORIES  OF  WHITMAN  AND  LINCOLN 234 

James  Oppenheim 

87.  AUTOCHTHON s 238 

Edgar  Lee  Masters 

88.  LINCOLN 247 

John  Gould  Fletcher 

89.  GENERAL  WILLIAM  BOOTH  ENTERS  INTO  HEAVEN     .     250 

Fachel  Lindsay 

90.  THE  POPPIES , 253 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr 

91.  YELLOW  CLOVER       255 

Katharine  Lee  Bates 

92.  OVER  NIGHT,  A  ROSE      258 

Caroline  Giltinan 

93.  EVENSONG 259 

Ridgely  Torrence 

94.  BATTLE  SLEEP 260 

Edith  Wharton 

95.  SONG 261 

Edward  ].  O'Brien 

96.  A  STATUE  IN  A  GARDEN     261 

Agnes  Lee 

97.  THE  LESSER  CHILDREN       262 

Ridgely  Torrence 

98.  A  THRUSH  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT     269 

Witter  Bynner 

99.  NOVEMBER      269 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 
xviii 


CONTENTS 

100.  THE  WINTER  SCENE 270 

Bliss  Carman 

101.  THE  TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE 272 

Joyce  Kilmer 

102.  COMING  HOME       275 

Elizabeth  Sewell  Hill 

103.  WE  WHO  WERE  LOVERS  OF  LIFE      278 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

104.  SUMMONS     280 

Louis  Untermeytr 

105.  THE  DEAD      282 

David  Morton 

106.  WE  DEAD 283 

James  Oppenheim 

107.  To  A  DEAD  SOLDIER 288 

Kendall  Harrison 

108.  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  HIRED  MAN 288 

Robert  Frost 

109.  A  HANDFUL  OF  DUST      295 

James  Oppenheim 
no.  "I  HAVE  A  RENDEZVOUS  WITH  DEATH" 296 

Alan  Seeger 
in.  THE  SECRET 297 

Frederick  Faust 

112.  SCINTILLA 2gg 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

113.  SLEEP • 299 

Edith  Wyatt 

114.  A  MEMORIAL  TABLET      302 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 

115.  EPITAPH 3O3 

Louise  Driscoll 

116.  COMRADES -o- 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

xu 


CONTENTS 

117.  THEY  WENT  FORTH  TO  BATTLE  BUT  THEY  ALWAYS  FELL    307 

Shaemas  0  Sheet 

118.  THE  UNKNOWN  BROTHERS  . 308 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

119.  THE  MONK  IN  THE  KITCHEN 310 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 

1 20.  DOORS 314 

Hermann  Hagedorn 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 315 

INDEX  OF   POEMS 317 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 321 


The 

Golden  Treasury  of 
Magazine  Verse 


Barter 

LIFE  has  loveliness  to  sell  — 
All  beautiful  and  splendid  things, 
Blue  waves  whitened  on  a  cliff, 

Climbing  fire  that  sways  and  sings, 
And  children's  faces  looking  up 
Holding  wonder  like  a  cup. 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell  — 

Music  like  a  curve  of  gold, 
Scent  of  pine  trees  in  the  rain, 

Eyes  that  love  you,  arms  that  hold, 
And  for  your  spirit's  still  delight, 
Holy  thoughts  that  star  the  night. 

Spend  all  you  have  for  loveliness, 

Buy  it  and  never  count  the  cost; 
For  one  white  singing  hour  of  peace 

Count  many  a  year  of  strife  well  lost, 
And  for  a  breath  of  ecstasy 
Give  all  you  have  been  or  could  be. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Sara  Teasdale 

Path-Flower 

A  RED-CAP  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 
A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane, 
As  I  the  April  pathway  trod 
Bound  west  for  Willesden. 


GOLDEN  TREASURY 


At  foot  each  tiny  blade  grew  big 

And  taller  stood  to  hear. 
And  every  leaf  on  every  twig 

Was  like  a  little  ear. 

As  I  too  paused,  and  both  ways  tried 
To  catch  the  rippling  rain,  — 

So  still,  a  hare  kept  at  my  side 
His  tussock  of  disdain,  — 

Behind  me  close  I  heard  a  step, 

A  soft  pit-pat  surprise, 
And  looking  round  my  eyes  fell  deep 

Into  sweet  other  eyes; 

The  eyes  like  wells,  where  sun  lies  too, 

So  clear  and  trustful  brown, 
Without  a  bubble  warning  you 

That  here's  a  place  to  drown. 

"How  many  miles?"     Her  broken  shoes 

Had  told  of  more  than  one. 
She  answered  like  a  dreaming  Muse, 

"I  came  from  Islington." 

"So  long  a  tramp?"     Two  gentle  nods, 

Then  seemed  to  lift  a  wing, 
And  words  fell  soft  as  willow-buds, 

"I  came  to  find  the  Spring." 

A  timid  voice,  yet  not  afraid 

In  ways  so  sweet  to  roam, 
As  it  with  honey  bees  had  played 

And  could  no  more  go  home. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Her  home!     I  saw  the  human  lair, 

I  heard  the  hucksters  bawl, 
I  stifled  with  the  thickened  air 

Of  bickering  mart  and  stall. 

Without  a  tuppence  for  a  ride, 

Her  feet  had  set  her  free. 
Her  rags,  that  decency  defied, 

Seemed  new  with  liberty. 

* 

But  she  was  frail.     Who  would  might  note 

That  trail  of  hungering 
That  for  an  hour  she  had  forgot 

In  wonder  of  the  Spring. 

So  shriven  by  her  joy  she  glowe'd 

It  seemed  a  sin  to  chat. 
"A  tea-shop  snuggled  off  the  road;" 

Why  did  I  think  of  that? 

Oh,  frail,  so  frail!     I  could  have  wept,  — 

But  she  was  passing  on. 
And  I  but  muddled,  "You'll  accept 

A  penny  for  a  bun?" 

Then  up  her  little  throat  a  spray 

Of  rose  climbed,  for  it  must; 
A  wilding  lost  till  safe  it  lay 

Hid  by  her  curls  of  rust; 

And  I  saw  modesties  at  fence 
With  pride  that  bore  no  name; 

So  old  it  was  she  knew  not  whence 
It  sudden  woke  and  came; 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

But  that  which  shone  of  all  most  clear 
Was  startled,  sadder  thought 

That  I  should  give  her  back  the  fear 
Of  life  she  had  forgot. 

And  I  blushed  for  the  world  we'd  made, 

Putting  God's  hand  aside, 
Till  for  the  want  of  sun  and  shade 

His  little  children  died; 

And  blushed  that  I  who  every  year 
With  Spring  went  up  and  down, 

Must  greet  a  soul  that  ached  for  her 
With  "penny  for  a  bun!" 

Struck  as  a  thief  in  holy  place 

Whose  sin  upon  him  cries, 
I  watched  the  flowers  leave  her  face, 

The  song  go  from  her  eyes. 

Then  she,  sweet  heart,  she  saw  my  rout, 

And  of  her  charity 
A  hand  of  grace  put  softly  out 

And  took  the  coin  from  me. 

A  red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood, 

A  lark  o'er  Golder's  lane; 
But  I,  alone,  still  glooming  stood, 

And  April  plucked  in  vain; 

Till  living  words  rang  in  my  ears 

And  sudden  music  played: 
Out  of  such  sacred  thirst  as  hers 

The  world  shall  be  remade. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Afar  she  turned  her  head  and  smiled 
As  might  have  smiled  the  Spring, 
And  humble  as  a  wondering  child 

I  watched  her  vanishing. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


3  Hymn  to  Demeter 

From  "  The  Story  of  Eleusis  " 

WEAVE  the  dance,  and  raise  again  the  sacred  chorus; 
Wreathe  the  garlands  of  the  spring  about  the  hair; 
Now  once  more  the  meadows  burst  in  bloom  before  us, 

Crying  swallows  dart  and  glitter  through  the  air. 
Glints  the  plowshare  in  the  brown  and  fragrant  furrow; 

Pigeons  coo  in  shady  coverts  as  they  pair; 
Come  the  furtive  mountain  folk  from  cave  and  burrow, 
Lean,  and  blinking  at  the  sunlight's  sudden  glare. 

Bright  through  midmost  heaven  moves  the  lesser  Lion; 

Hide  the  Hyades  in  ocean  caverns  hoar; 
Past  the  shoulders  of  the  sunset  flames  Orion, 

Following  the  sisters  seaward  evermore. 
Gleams  the  east  at  evening,  lit  by  low  Arcturus; 

Out  to  subtle-scented  dawns  beside  the  shore, 
Yet  a  little  and  the  Pleiades  will  lure  us: 

Weave  the  dance  and  raise  the  chorus  as  of  yore. 

Far  to  eastward  up  the  fabled  gulf  of  Issus, 

Northward,  southward,  westward,  now  the  trader  goes, 

Passing  headlands  clustered  yellow  with  narcissus, 
Bright  with  hyacinth,  with  poppy,  and  with  rose. 

5 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Shines  the  sea  and  falls  the  billow  as  undaunted, 

?i~:  :'-r  r.j-.r;  ::*:r.r  i:ir?  :~.i:  r.:  rr.ir.  £.-.:—?. 
Sails  he  onward  through  the  Stfa»J«  siren-haunted, 

.  :..  ~~=  :.2i:.~~  ±±-;<  ::  :::«.  r-e:::=  .-.in:  /.:<c. 

Kindly  If  other  of  the  beasts  and  bods  and  §UWULA» 
Gracious  bringer  of  the  barley  and  the  grain, 

Earth  anaLened  feels  thy  sunlight  and  thy  Umnneis; 
Great  Demeter!  Let  us  call  thee  not  in  vain; 

Lead  •«  «afcly  tnrnn  ****•  m  JJIMJ^  to  tfc^  Aar^AaB^ 

Past  the  harvest  and  the  vineyard's  purple  stain; 

Let  us  see  thy  corn-pale  hair  die  sunlight  meshing, 

When  the  Mm^Jiag  flails  of  »••••••>«  swing  again. 

TV  Yak  Jfcruw  Lo-aif  T.  Ledamx 


To  Imagination 

[Suggested  by  Maxfield  Pamsh's  "Air  Castles"] 

O  BEAUTEOUS  boy  a-dream,  what  visions  sought 
Of  pictures  magical  thy  eyes  unfold, 


What  umvtU  from  a  breath  of  beauty  rolled  ! 
Skyward  and  seaward  on  the  clouds  are  scrolled 

A  mystic  iiiugtiy  of  castled  thought, 
A  thousand  worlds  to  lose,  —  or  win  and  mold, 

A  radiant  iridescence  swiftly  caught 
Of  ever-changing  glory,  fancy-fraught. 

Blue  wonder  of  the  sea  and  luminous  sky,  — 
A  fl»««"*M»*i  wonders  in  thy  dreamfit  face,  — 

Eyes  that  beheld  afar  the  turrets  high 
Of  111  um,  and  the  uansicni  mortal  grace 
6 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Of  Deirdre's  sadness,  all  the  conquering  race 
Of  Athens,  —  eyes  that  saw  Eden's  beauty  lie 

In  passionate  adoration  —  visions  trace 
Across  the  tender  brooding  of  the  sigh 

That  wrecked  a  city  and  made  chieftains  die. 

Forward  not  backward  turns  the  mystic  shine 

Of  those  far-seeing  orbs  that  track  the  gleam  — 
The  fleecy  marvel  of  the  cloud  is  line 

On  line  the  wizard  tracery  of  a  dream. 
O  lad,  who  buildest  not  of  things  that  seem, 

Beyond  what  bounds  of  visioning  divine 
Came  that  far  f  mile,  from  what  long-strayed  sunbeam 

Caught  thou  the  radiance,  from  what  fostering  vine 
The  power  to  build  and  mold  the  deep  design: 

Knowest  thou  the  secret  that  thy  brush  would  tell, 

Is  all  the  dream  a  bubbled  splendor  white. 
Beyond  those  castles  cloud-bound,  does  there  dwell 

The  eternal  silence  of  the  dark  —  or  light? 
Will  thy  hand  hold  the  pen  which  shall  indict 

The  symbolled  mystery  —  write  the  final  knell 
Of  rainbow  fancy  —  is  the  distant  sight 

A  nothingness  encircled  by  the  spell 
Of  gleaming  bubbles  wrought  of  beauty's  shell? 

In  vain  to  question,  where  the  mystery 
Of  Youth's  short  golden  dream  is  lord  and  king. 

The  eyes  that  farthest  gaze  in  ecstasy. 

Were  never  meant  to  paint  the  immortal  thing 

They  see,  nor  understand  the  joy  they  bring. 
The  misty  baubles  of  the  sky  and  sea 

7 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Sail  on.    Dream  still,  bright-visioned  boy,  and  fling 

The  glittering  mantle  of  thy  thoughts  that  flee, 
Weaving  us  evermore  thy  shining  pageantry. 
The  Poetry  Journal  Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann 


Two  Songs  in  Spring 


O  LITTLE  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring, 
You  hold  my  winter  in  forgetfulness; 
Without  my  window  lilac  branches  swing, 
Within  my  gate  I  hear  a  robin  sing  — 

O  little  laughing  blooms  that  lift  and  bless! 

So  blow  the  breezes  in  a  soft  caress, 

Blowing  my  dreams  upon  a  swallow's  wing; 
O  little  merry  buds  in  dappled  dress, 
You  fill  my  heart  with  very  wantonness  — 
O  little  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring! 


At  hint  of  Spring  I  have  you  back  again  — 
The  blush  of  apple-blossoms  on  the  bough, 

A  scent  of  buds  far  sweeter  for  the  rain  .  .  . 

At  hint  of  Spring  I  have  you  back  again, 
And  all  the  time  is  lost  since  then  and  now. 

Your  voice  is  hidden  in  the  thrush's  song, 

And  in  the  south  wind's  slumbering  refrain; 
8 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

You  needs  faiust  come,  love  is  so  very  strong, 
And  we  whA  found  each  other  waited  long  — 

At  hint  on  Spring  I  have  you  back  again! 
The  Pathfinder  Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr. 

Trees 

I  THINK  that  I  shall  never  see 
A  poem  lovely  as  a  tree. 

A  tree  whose  hungry  mouth  is  prest 

Against  the  sweet  earth's  sweet  flowing  breast; 

A  tree  that  looks  at  God  all  day 
And  lifts  her  leafy  arms  to  pray; 

A  tree  that  may  in  Summer  wear 
A  nest  of  robins  in  her  hair; 

Upon  whose  bosom  snow  has  lain; 
Who  intimately  lives  with  rain. 

Poems  are  made  by  fools  like  me, 
But  only  God  can  make  a  tree! 
Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Joyce  Kilmer 

9 

Landscapes 

(For  Clement  R.  Wood) 

THE  rain  was  over,  and  the  brilliant  air 
Made  every  little  blade  of  grass  appear 
Vivid  and  startling  —  everything  was  there 
With  sharpened  outlines,  eloquently  clear, 
As  though  one  saw  it  in  a  crystal  sphere. 

9 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  rusty  sumac  with  its  struggling  spires; 
The  golden-rod  with  all  its  million  fires; 
(A  million  torches  swinging  in  the  wind) 
A  single  poplar,  marvellously  thinned, 
Half  like  a  naked  boy,  half  like  a  sword; 
Clouds,  like  the  haughty  banners  of  the  Lord; 
A  group  of  pansies  with  their  shrewish  faces 
Little  old  ladies  cackling  over  laces; 
The  quaint,  unhurried  road  that  curved  so  well;    - 
The  prim  petunias  with  their  rich,  rank  smell; 
The  lettuce-birds,  the  creepers  in  the  field  — 
How  bountifully  were  they  all  revealed! 
How  arrogantly  each  one  seemed  to  thrive  — 
So  frank  and  strong,  so  radiantly  alive! 

And  over  all  the  morning-minded  earth 
There  seemed  to  spread  a  sharp  and  kindling  mirth, 
Piercing  the  stubborn  stones  until  I  saw 
The  toad  face  heaven  without  shame  or  awe, 
The  ant  confront  the  stars,  and  every  weed 
Grow  proud  as  though  it  bore  a  royal  seed; 
While  all  the  things  that  die  and  decompose 
Sent  forth  their  bloom  as  richly  as  the  rose  .  .  . 
Oh,  what  a  liberal  power  that  made  them  thrive  * 
And  keep  the  very  dirt  that  died,  alive. 

And  now  I  saw  the  slender  willow-tree 
No  longer  calm  or  drooping  listlessly, 
Letting  its  languid  branches  sway  and  fall 
As  though  it  danced  in  some  sad  ritual; 
But  rather  like  a  young,  athletic  girl, 
Fearless  and  gay,  her  hair  all  out  of  curl, 
10 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  flying  in  the  wind  —  her  head  thrown  back, 
Her  arms  flung  up,  her  garments  flowing  slack, 
And  all  her  rushing  spirits  running  over  .  .  . 
What  made  a  sober  tree  seem  such  a  rover  — 
Or  made  the  staid  and  stalwart  apple-trees, 
That  stood  for  years  knee-deep  in  velvet  peace, 
Turn  all  their  fruit  to  little  worlds  of  flame, 
And  burn  the  trembling  orchard  there  below. 
What  lit  the  heart  of  every  golden-glow  — 
Oh,  why  was  nothing  weary,  dull  or  tame?  .  .  . 
Beauty  it  was,  and  keen,  compassionate  mirth 
That  drives  the  vast  and  energetic  earth. 

And,  with  abrupt  and  visionary  eyes, 

I  saw  the  huddled  tenements  arise. 

Here  where  the  merry  clover  danced  and  shone 

Sprang  agonies  of  iron  and  of  stone; 

There,  where  the  green  Silence  laughed  or  stood  enthralled. 

Cheap  music  blared  and  evil  alleys  sprawled. 

The  roaring  avenues,  the  shrieking  mills; 

Brothels  and  prisons  on  those  kindly  hills  — 

The  menace  of  these  things  swept  over  me; 

A  threatening,  unconquerable  sea.  .  .  . 

A  stirring  landscape  and  a  generous  earth! 
Freshening  courage  and  benevolent  mirth  — 
And  then  the  city,  like  a  hideous  sore  .  .  . 
Good  God,  and  what  is  all  this  beauty  for? 

The  Century  Magazine  Louis  Untermeyer 


ii 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


8  To  a  Hermit  Thrush 

DWELLER  among  leaves,  and  shining  twilight  boughs 
That  fold  cool  arms  about  thine  altar  place, 
What  joyous  race 
Of  gods  dost  serve  with  such  unfaltering  vows? 

Weave  me  a  time-fringed  tale 

Of  slumbering,  haunted  trees, 

And  star-sweet  fragrances 

No  day  defiled; 

Of  bowering  nights  innumerable, 

And  nestling  hours  breath-nigh  a  dryad's  heart 

That  sleeping  yet  was  wild 

With  dream-beat  that  thou  mad'st   a  part 

Of  thy  dawn-fluting;  ay,  and  keep'st  it  still, 

Striving  so  late  these  godless  woods  to  fill 

With  undefeated  strain, 

And  in  one  hour  build  the  old  world  again. 

Wast  thou  found  singing  when  Diana  drew 
Her  skirts  from  the  first  night? 
Didst  feel  the  sun-breath  when  the  valleys  grew 
Warm  with  the  love  of  light, 
Till  blades  of  flower-lit  green  gave  to  the  wind 
The  mystery  that  made  sweet 
The  earth  forever,  —  strange  and  undefined 
As  life,  as  God,  as  this  thy  song  complete 
That  holds  with  me  twin  memories 
Of  time  ere  men, 
And  ere  our  ways 

Lay  sundered  with  the  abyss  of  air  between? 
12 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

List,  I  will  lay 

The  world,  my  song, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  day, 

Day  that  is  long 

As  the  ages  dream  or  the  stars  delay! 

Keep  thou  from  me, 

Sigh-throated  man, 

Forever  to  be 

Under  the  songless  wanderer's  ban. 

I  am  of  time 

That  counteth  no  dawn; 

Thy  aons  yet  climb 

To  skies  I  have  won, 

Seeking  for  aye  an  unrisen  sun! 

Soft  as  a  shadow  slips 

Before  the  moon,  I  creep  beneath  the  trees, 

Even  to  the  boughs  whose  lowest  circling  tips 

Whisper  with  the  anemones 

Thick-strewn  as  though  a  cloud  had  made 

Its  drifting  way  through  spray  and  leafy  braid 

And  sunk  with  unremembering  ease 

To  humbler  heaven  upon  the  mossy  heaps. 

And  here  a  warmer  flow 

Urges  thy  melody,  yet  keeps 

The  cool  of  bowers;  as  might  a  rose  blush  through 

Its  unrelinquished  dew; 

Or  bounteous  heart  that  knows  not  woe, 

Put  on  the  robe  of  sighs,  and  fain 

Would  hold  in  love's  surmise  a  neighbour's  pain. 

Ah,  I  have  wronged  thee,  sprite! 
So  tender  now  thy  song  in  flight, 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

So  sweet  its  lingerings  are, 

It  seems  the  liquid  memory 

Of  time  when  thou  didst  try 

Thy  gleaning  wing  through  human  years, 

And  met,  ay,  knew  the  sigh 

Of  men  who  pray,  the  tears 

That  hide  the  woman's  star, 

The  brave  ascending  fire 

That  is  youth's  beacon  and  too  soon  his  pyre, 

Yea,  all  our  striving,  bateless  and  unseeing, 

That  builds  each  day  our  Heaven  new. 

More  deep  in  time's  unnearing  blue, 

Farther  and  ever  fleeing 

The  dream  that  ever  must  pursue. 

Heart-need  is  sorest 
When  the  song  dies: 
Come  to  the  forest, 
Brother  of  the  sighs. 
Heart-need  is  song-need, 
Brother,  give  me  thine! 
Song-meed  is  heart-meed, 
Brother,  take  mine! 

I  go  the  still  way, 
Cover  me  with  night; 
Thou  goest  the  will  way 
Into  the  light. 
Dust  and  the  burden 
Thou  shalt  outrun; 
Bear  then  my  guerdon. 
Song,  to  the  sun! 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

0  little  pagan  with  the  heart  of  Christ, 

1  go  bewildered  from  thine  altar  place, 

These  brooding  boughs  and  grey-lit  forest  wings, 

Nor  know  if  thou  deniest 

My  destiny  and  race, 

Man's  goalward  falterings, 

To  sing  the  perfect  joy  that  lay     , 

Along  the  path  we  missed  somewhere, 

That  led  thee  to  thy  home  in  air, 

While  we,  soil-creepers,  bruise  our  way 

Toward  heights  and  sunrise  bounds 

That  wings  may  know  nor  feet  may  win 

For  all  their  scars,  for  all  their  wounds; 

Or  have  I  heard  within  thy  strain 

Not  sorrow's  self,  but  sorrowing 

That  thou  didst  seek  the  way  more  free, 

Nor  took  with  us  the  trail  of  pain 

That  endeth  not,  e'er  widening 

To  life  that  knows  what  Life  may  be; 

And  e'er  thou  fall'st  to  silence  long 

Would  golden  parting  fling: 

Go,  man,  through  death  unto  thy  star; 

I  journey  not  so  far; 

My  wings  must  fail  e'en  with  my  song. 

Scribner's  Magazine  Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


m 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

9  To  a  Phoebe-Bird 

UNDER  the  eaves,  out  of  the  wet, 
You  nest  within  my  reach; 
You  never  sing  for  me  and  yet 
You  have  a  golden  speech. 

You  sit  and  quirk  a  rapid  tail, 

Wrinkle  a  ragged  crest, 
Then  pirouette  from  tree  to  rail 

And  vault  from  rail  to  nest. 

And  when  in  frequent,  dainty  fright 

You  grayly  slip  and  fade, 
And  when  at  hand  you  re-alight 

Demure  and  unafraid, 

And  when  you  bring  your  brood  its  fill 

Of  iridescent  wings 
And  green  legs  dewy  in  your  bill, 

Your  silence  is  what  sings. 

Not  of  a  feather  that  enjoys 

To  prate  or  praise  or  preach, 
O  Phoebe,  with  so  little  noise, 

What  eloquence  you  teach! 
The  Bellman  Witter  Bynner 

10  Birches 

WHEN  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 
Across  the  lines  of  straighter  darker  trees, 
I  like  to  think  some  boy's  been  swinging  them. 
But  swinging  does  n't  bend  them  down  to  stay. 
16 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Ice-storms  do  that.    Often  you  must  have  seen  them 

Loaded  with  ice  a  sunny  winter  morning 

After  a  rain.    They  click  upon  themselves 

As  the  breeze  rises,  and  turn  many-colored 

As  the  stir  cracks  and  crazes  their  enamel. 

Soon  the  sun's  warmth  makes  them  shed  crystal  shells 

Shattering  and  avalanching  on  the  snow-crust  — 

Such  heaps  of  broken  glass  to  sweep  away 

You'd  think  the  inner  dome  of  heaven  had  fallen. 

They  are  dragged  to  the  withered  bracken  by  the  load 

And  they  seem  not  to  break;  though  once  they  are  bowed 

So  low  for  long  they  never  right  themselves: 

You  may  see  their  trunks  arching  in  the  woods 

Years  afterwards,  trailing  their  leaves  on  the  ground 

Like  girls  on  hands  and  knees  that  throw  their  hair 

Before  them  over  their  heads  to  dry  in  the  sun. 

But  I  was  going  to  say  when  truth  broke  in 

With  all  her  matter-of-fact  about  the  ice-storm, 

(Now  am  I  free  to  be  poetical?) 

I  should  prefer  to  have  some  boy  bend  them 

As  he  went  out  and  in  to  fetch  the  cows  — 

Some  boy  too  far  from  town  to  learn  baseball, 

Whose  only  play  was  what  he  found  himself, 

Summer  or  winter,  and  could  play  alone. 

One  by  one  he  subdued  his  father's  trees 

By  riding  them  down  over  and  over  again 

Until  he  took  the  stiffness  out  of  them 

And  not  one  but  hung  limp,  not  one  was  left 

For  him  to  conquer.    He  learned  all  there  was 

To  learn  about  not  launching  out  too  soon 

And  so  not  carrying  the  tree  away 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Clear  to  the  ground.    He  always  kept  his  poise 

To  the  top  branches,  climbing  carefully 

With  the  same  pains  you  use  to  fill  a  cup 

Up  to  the  brim,  and  even  above  the  brim. 

Then  he  flung  outward,  feet  first,  with  a  swish, 

Kicking  his  way  down  through  the  air  to  the  ground. 

So  was  I  once  myself  a  swinger  of  birches. 

And  so  I  dream  of  going  back  to  be. 

It's  when  I'm  weary  of  considerations, 

And  life  is  too  much  like  a  pathless  wood 

Where  your  face  burns  and  tickles  with  the  cobwebs 

Broken  across  it,  and  one  eye  is  weeping 

From  a  twig's  having  lashed  across  it  open. 

I'd  like  to  get  away  from  earth  awhile 

And  then  come  back  to  it  and  begin  over. 

May  no  fate  willfully  misunderstand  me 

And  half  grant  what  I  wish  and  snatch  me  away 

Not  to  return.    Earth's  the  right  place  for  love: 

I  don't  know  where  it's  likely  to  go  better. 

I'd  like  to  go  by  climbing  a  birch  tree, 

And  climb  black  branches  up  a  snow-white  trunk 

Toward  heaven,  till  the  tree  could  bear  no  more, 

But  dipped  its  top  and  set  me  down  again. 

That  would  be  good  both  going  and  coming  back. 

One  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger  of  birches. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly  Robert  Frost 


18 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


11  Indian-Pipe 

IN  the  heart  of  the  forest  arising, 
Slim,  ghostly,  and  fair, 
Ethereal  offspring  of  moisture, 

Of  earth  and  of  air; 
With  slender  stems  anchored  together 

Where  first  they  uncurl, 
Each  tipped  with  its  exquisite  lily 

Of  mother-of-pearl; 
Mid  the  pine-needles,  closely  enwoven 

Its  Foots  to  embale,  — 
The  Indian-pipe  of  the  woodland, 

Thrice  lovely  and  frail! 

Is  this  but  an  earth-springing  fungus  — 

This  darling  of  Fate 
Which  out  of  the  moulding  darkness 

Such  light  can  create? 
Or  is  it  the  spirit  of  Beauty, 

Here  drawn  by  love's  lure 
To  give  to  the  forest  a  something 

Unearthy  and  pure: 
To  crystallize  dewdrop  and  balsam 

And  dryad-lisped  words 
And  starbeam  and  moonrise  and  rapture 

And  song  of  wild  birds? 
Harper's  Magazine  Florence  Earle  Coates 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


12  From  a  Motor  in  May 

THE  leaves  of  Autumn  and  the  buds  of  Spring 
Meet  and  commingle  on  our  winding  way  — 
And  we,  who  glide  into  the  heart  of  May, 
Sense  in  our  souls  a  sudden  quivering. 
What  though  the  flash  of  blue  or  scarlet  wing 
Bid  us  forget  the  night  in  dawning  day, 
Skies  of  November,  sullen,  sad,  and  gray, 
Once  hung  above  this  withered  covering. 
There  is  no  Spring  that  Autumn  has  not  known, 
Nor  any  Autumn  Spring  has  not  divined,  — 
The  odor  of  dead  flowers  on  the  wind 
Shall  but  enrich  a  fairer  blossoming, 
And  though  they  shiver  from  a  breeze  outblown, 
The  leaves  of  Autumn  guard  the  buds  of  Spring. 
The  Outlook  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 


A  Mountain  Gateway 

I  KNOW  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day, 
When  June  comes  back  and  all  the  world  once  more 
Is  glad  with  summer.    Deep  with  shade  it  lies, 
A  mighty  cleft  in  the  green  bosoming  hills, 
A  cool,  dim  gateway  to  the  mountains'  heart. 

On  either  side  the  wooded  slopes  come  down, 
Hemlock  and  beech  and  chestnut;  here  and  there 
Through  the  deep  forest  laurel  spreads  and  gleams, 
Pink-white  as  Daphne  in  her  loveliness  — 

20 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

That  still  perfection  from  the  world  withdrawn, 
As  if  the  wood  gods  had  arrested  there 
Immortal  beauty  in  her  breathless  flight. 

Far  overhead  against  the  arching  blue 
Gray  ledges  overhang  from  dizzy  heights, 
Scarred  by  a  thousand  winters  and  untamed. 
The  road  winds  in  from  the  broad  riverlands, 
Luring  the  happy  traveler  turn  by  turn, 
Up  to  the  lofty  mountains  of  the  sky. 

And  where  the  road  runs  in  the  valley's  foot, 

Through  the  dark  woods  the  mountain  stream  comes 

down, 

Singing  and  dancing  all  its  youth  away 
Among  the  boulders  and  the  shallow  runs, 
Where  sunbeams  pierce  and  mossy  tree  trunks  hang, 
Drenched  all  day  long  with  murmuring  sound  and  spray. 
There,  light  of  heart  and  footfree,  I  would  go 
Up  to  my  home  among  the  lasting  hills, 
'And  in  my  cabin  doorway  sit  me  down, 
Companioned  in  that  leafy  solitude 
By  the  wood  ghosts  of  twilight  and  of  peace. 

And  in  that  sweet  seclusion  I  should  hear, 
Among  the  cool-leafed  beeches  in  the  dusk, 
The  calm-voiced  thrushes  at  their  evening  hymn  — 
So  undistraught,  so  rapturous,  so  pure, 
It  well  might  be,  in  wisdom  and  in  joy, 
The  seraphs  singing  at  the  birth  of  time 
The  umvorn  ritual  of  eternal  things. 
The  Smart  Set  Bliss  Carman 

21 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 
14  The  Flight 

OWILD  Heart,  track  the  land's  perfume, 
Beach-roses  and  moor-heather! 
All  fragrances  of  herb  and  bloom 

Fail,  out  at  sea,  together. 
O  follow  where  aloft  find  room 
Lark-song  and  eagle-feather! 
All  ecstasies  of  throat  and  plume 
Melt,  high  on  yon  blue  weather. 

"  O  leave  on  sky  and  ocean  lost 

The  flight  creation  dareth; 
Take  wings  of  love,  that  mounts  the  most; 

Find  fame,  that  furthest  fareth! 
Thy  flight,  albeit  amid  her  host 

Thee,  too,  night  star-like  beareth, 
Flying,  thy  breast  on  heaven's  coast, 

The  infinite  outweareth. 

ii 

"Dead  o'er  us  roll  celestial  fires; 

Mute  stand  Earth's  ancient  beaches; 
Old  thoughts,  old  instincts,  old  desires, 

The  passing  hour  outreaches; 
The  soul  creative  never  tires  — 

Evokes,  adores,  beseeches; 
And  that  heart  most  the  god  inspires 

Whom  most  its  wildness  teaches. 

"For  I  will  course  through  falling  years, 

And  stars  and  cities  burning; 
22 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  I  will  march  through  dying  cheers 

Past  empires  unreturning; 
Ever  the  world-flame  reappears 

Where  mankind  power  is  earning, 
The  nations'  hopes,  the  people's  tears, 

One  with  the  wild  heart  yearning." 
Scribner's  Magazine  George  Edward  Woodberry 


15  Magic 

IRAN  into  the  sunset  light 
As  hard  as  I  could  run: 
The  treetops  bowed  in  sheer  delight 
As  if  they  loved  the  sun: 
And  all  the  songs  of  little  birds 
Who  laughed  and  cried  in  silver  words 
Were  joined  as  they  were  one. 

And  down  the  streaming  golden  sky 

A  lark  came  circling  with  a  cry 

Of  wonder-weaving  joy: 

And  all  the  arch  of  heaven  rang 

Where  meadowlands  of  dreaming  hang 

As  when  I  was  a  boy. 

And  through  the  ringing  solitude 
In  pulsing  lovely  amplitude 
A  mist  hung  in  a  shroud, 
As  though  the  light  of  loneliness 
Turned  pure  delight  to  holiness, 
And  bathed  it  in  a  cloud. 

23 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  stripped  my  laughing  body  bare 
And  plunged  into  that  holy  air 
That  washed  me  like  a  sea, 
And  raced  against  its  silver  tide 
That  stroked  my  eager  glancing  side 
And  made  my  spirit  free. 

Across  the  limits  of  the  land 

The  wind  and  I  swept  hand  in  hand 

Beyond  the  golden  glow. 

We  danced  across  the  ocean  plain 

Like  thrushes  singing  in  the  rain 

A  song  of  long  ago. 

And  on  into  the  silver  night 

We  strove  to  win  the  race  with  light 

And  bring  the  vision  home, 

And  bring  the  wonder  home  again 

Unto  the  sleeping  eyes  of  men 

Across  the  singing  foam. 

And  down  the  river  of  the  world 

Our  glowing  limbs  in  glory  swirled 

As  spring  within  a  flower, 

And  stars  in  music  of  delight 

Streamed  gaily  down  our  shoulders  white 

Like  petals  in  a  shower. 

And  tears  of  awful  wonder  ran 
Adown  my  cheeks  to  hear  the  clan 
Of  beauty  chaunting  white 


24 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  prayer  too  deep  for  living  word, 
Or  sight  of  man,  or  winging  bird, 
Or  music  over  forest  heard 
At  falling  of  the  night. 

And  dropping  slowly  as  the  dew 
On  grasses  that  the  winds  renew 
In  urge  of  flooding  fire, 
And  softly  as  the  hushing  boughs 
The  gentle  airs  of  dawn  arouse 
To  cradle  morning's  quire, 

The  murmur  of  the  singing  leaves 

Around  the  secret  Flame, 

Like  mating  swallows  'neath  the  eaves 

In  rustling  silence  came, 

And  flowing  through  the  silent  air 

Creation  fluttered  in  a  prayer 

Descending  on  a  spiral  stair, 

And  calling  me  by  name. 

It  nestled  in  my  dreaming  eyes 

Like  heaven  in  a  lake, 

And  softened  hope  into  surprise 

For  very  beauty's  sake, 

And  silence  blossomed  into  morn, 

Whose  fragrant  rosy-breasted  dawn 

Could  scarcely  bear  to  break. 

I  sang  into  the  morning  light 

As  loud  as  I  could  sing, 

The  treetops  bowed  in  sheer  delight 

Before  a  slanting  wing, 

25 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  all  the  songs  of  little  birds 
Who  laughed  and  cried  in  silver  words 
Adored  the  Risen  Spring. 
The  Trimmed  Lamp  Edward  J.  O'Brien 


16  Earth 

GRASSHOPPER,  your  fairy  song 
And  my  poem  alike  belong 
To  the  deep  and  silent  earth 
From  which  all  poetry  has  birth; 
All  we  say  and  all  we  sing 
Is  but  as  the  murmuring 
Of  that  drowsy  heart  of  hers 
When  from  her  deep  dream  she  stirs: 
If  we  sorrow,  or  rejoice, 
You  and  I  are  but  her  voice. 


Deftly  does  the  dust  express 
In  mind  her  hidden  loveliness, 
And  from  her  cool  silence  stream 
The  cricket's  cry  and  Dante's  dream: 
For  the  earth  that  breeds  the  trees 
Breeds  cities  too,  and  symphonies, 
Equally  her  beauty  flows 
Into  a  savior,  or  a  rose  — 
Looks  down  in  dream,  and  from  above 
Smiles  at  herself  in  Jesus'  love. 
Christ's  love  and  homer's  art 
Are  but  the  workings  of  her  heart; 
26 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Through  Leonardo's  hand  she  seeks 
Herself,  and  through  Beethoven  speaks 
In  holy  thunderings  around 
The  awful  message  of  the  ground. 

The  serene  and  humble  mould 
Does  in  herself  all  selves  enfold  — 
Kingdoms,  destinies,  and  creeds, 
Great  dreams  and  dauntless  deeds, 
Science  that  metes  the  firmament, 
The  high,  inflexible  intent 
Of  one  for  many  sacrificed  — 
Plato's  brain,  the  heart  of  Christ: 
All  love,  all  legend,  and  all  lore 
Are  in  the  dust  forevermore. 

Even  as  the  growing  grass 
Up  from  the  soil  religions  pass, 
And  the  field  that  bears  the  rye 
Bears  parables  and  prophecy. 
Out  of  the  earth  the  poem  grows 
Like  the  lily,  or  the  rose; 
And  all  man  is,  or  yet  may  be, 
Is  but  herself  in  agony 
Toiling  up  the  steep  ascent 
Towards  the  corr  plete  accomplishment 
When  all  dust  shall  be,  the  whole 
Universe,  one  conscious  soul. 

Yea,  the  quiet  and  cool  sod 

Bears  in  her  breast  the  dream  of  God. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

If  you  would  know  what  earth  is,  scan 
The  intricate,  proud  heart  of  man, 
Which  is  the  earth  articulate, 
And  learn  how  holy  and  how  great, 
How  limitless  and  how  profound 
Is  the  nature  of  the  ground  — 
How  without  terror  or  demur 
We  may  entrust  ourselves  to  her 
When  we  are  wearied  out,  and  lay 
Our  faces  in  the  common  clay. 

For  she  is  pity,  she  is  love, 

All  wisdom  she,  all  thoughts  that  move 

About  her  everlasting  breast 

Till  she  gathers  them  to  rest: 

All  tenderness  of  all  the  ages, 

Seraphic  secrets  of  the  sages, 

Vision  and  hope  of  all  the  seers, 

All  prayer,  all  anguish,  and  all  tears 

Are  but  the  dust,  that  from  her  dream 

Awakes,  and  knows  herself  supreme  — 

Are  but  earth  when  she  reveals 

All  that  her  secret  heart  conceals 

Down  in  the  dark  and  silent  loam, 

Which  is  ourselves  asleep,  at  home. 

Yea,  and  this  my  poem,  too, 
Is  part  of  her  as  dust  and  dew, 
Wherein  herself  she  doth  declare 
Through  my  lips,  and  say  her  prayer. 
The  Yale  Review    '  John  Hall  Wheekck 


28 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

17  The  Road  not  Taken 

TWO  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood, 
And  sorry  I  could  not  travel  both 
And  be  one  traveler,  long  I  stood 
And  looked  down  one  as  far  as  I  could 
To  where  it  bent  in  the  undergrowth; 

Then  took  the  other,  as  just  as  fair, 
And  having  perhaps  the  better  claim 
Because  it  was  grassy  and  wanted  wear, 
Though  as  for  that  the  passing  there 
Had  worn  them  really  about  the  same, 

And  both  that  morning  equally  lay 
In  leaves  no  step  had  trodden  black. 
Oh,  I  marked  the  first  for  another  day! 
Yet  knowing  how  way  leads  on  to  way 
I  doubted  if  I  should  ever  come  back. 

I  shall  be  telling  this  with  a  sigh 
Somewhere  ages  and  ages  hence: 
Two  roads  diverged  in  a  wood,  and  I, 
I  took  the  one  less  traveled  by, 
And  that  has  made  all  the  difference. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Robert  Frost 

18  The  Adventurer 

HE  did  not  come  in  the  red  dawn, 
Nor  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 
And  all  the  long  bright  highway 
Lay  lonely  to  the  moon, 

29 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  nevermore,  we  know  now, 
WJX[  he  come  wandering  down 

The  breezy  hollows  of  the  hills 
That  gird  the  quiet  town. 

For  he  has  heard  a  voice  cry 

A  starry-faint  "  Ahoy ! " 
Far  up  the  wind,  and  followed 

Unquestioning  after  joy. 

But  we  are  long  forgetting 

The  quiet  way  be  went, 
With  looks  of  love  and  gentle  scorn 

So  sweetly,  subtly  blent. 

We  cannot  cease  to  wonder, 
We  who  have  loved  him,  how 

He  fares  along  the  windy  ways 
His  feet  must  travel  now. 

But  we  must  draw  the  curtain 

And  fasten  bolt  and  bars 
And  talk  here  in  the  firelight 

Of  him  beneath  the  stars. 
The  Bellman  OkU  Shtpard 


19  Good  Company 

TO-DAY  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking  with  the 
trees, 

The  seven  sister-poplars  who  go  softly  in  a  line; 
And  I  think  my  heart  is  whiter  for  its  parley  with  a  star 
That  trembled  out  at  nightfall  and  hung  above  the  pine. 
30 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  call-note  of  a  redbird  from  the  cedars  in  the  dusk 
Woke  his  happy  mate  within  me  to  an  answer  free  and  fine; 
And  a  sudden  angel  beckoned  from  a  column  of  blue 

smoke  — 
Lord,  who  am  I  that  they  should  stoop  —  these  holy  folk  of 

thine? 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America        Karle  Wilson  Baker 

20  To  No  One  in  Particular 

LOCATE  your  love,  you  lose  your  love, 
Find  her,  you  look  away.  .  . 
Now  mine  I  never  quite  discern, 
I  trace  her  every  day. 

She  has  a  thousand  presences, 

As  surely  seen  and  heard 
As  birds  that  hide  behind  a  leaf 

Or  leaves  that  hide  a  bird. 

Single  your  love,  you  lose  your  love, 

You  cloak  her  face  with  clay; 
Now  mine  I  never  quite  discern  — 

And  never  look  away. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Witter  Bynner 


21  The  Sea-Lands 

WOULD  I  were  on  the  sea-lands, 
Where  winds  know  how  to  sting; 
And  in  the  rocks  at  midnight 
The  lost  long  murmurs  sing. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Would  I  were  with  my  first  love 

To  hear  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  spume  below  the  doorstep 

And  winds  upon  the  door. 

My  first  love  was  a  fair  girl 

With  ways  forever  new; 
And  hair  a  sunlight  yellow, 

And  eyes  a  morning  blue. 

The  roses,  have  they  tarried 

Or  are  they  dun  and  frayed  ? 
If  we  had  stayed  together, 

Would  love,  indeed,  have  stayed? 

Ah,  years  are  filled  with  learning, 

And  days  are  leaves  of  change! 
And  I  have  met  so  many 

I  knew  .  .  .  and  found  them  strange. 

But  on  the  sea-lands  tumbled 

By  winds  that  sting  and  blind, 
The  nights  we  watched,  so  silent, 

Come  back,  come  back  to  mind. 

I  mind  about  my  first  love, 

And  hear  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  spume  below  the  doorstep 
And  winds  upon  the  door. 
The  Forum  Orrick  Johns 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  New  Platonist 

Circa  1640 

OUR  loves  as  flowers  fall  to  dust; 
The  noblest  singing  hath  an  end; 
No  man  to  his  own  soul  may  trust, 

Nor  to  the  kind  arms  of  his  friend; 
Yet  have  I  glimpsed  by  lonely  tree, 
Bright  baths  of  immortality. 

My  faultless  teachers  bid  me  fare 
The  cypress  path  of  blood  and  tears, 

Treading  the  thorny  wold  to  where 
The  painful  Cross  of  Christ  appears; 

'T  was  on  another,  sunnier  hill, 

I  met  you  first,  my  miracle. 

The  painted  windows  burn  and  flame 
Up  through  the  music-haunted  air; 

These  were  my  gods  —  and  then  you  came, 
With  flowers  crowned  and  sun-kissed  hair, 

Making  this  northern  river  seem 

Some  laughter-girdled  Grecian  stream. 

When  the  fierce  foeman  of  our  race 
Marshals  his  lords  of  lust  and  pride, 

You  spring  within  a  moment's  space, 
Full-armed  and  smiling  to  my  side. 

O  golden  heart!    The  love  you  gave  me, 

Alone  has  saved,  and  yet  will  save  me. 

33 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Perchance  we  have  no  perfect  city 

Beyond  the  wrack  of  these  our  wars, 
Till  Death  alone  in  sacred  pity 

Wash  with  long  sleep  our  wounds  and  scars; 
So  much  the  more  I  praise  in  measure 
The  generous  gods  for  you,  my  treasure. 
The  New  Republic  Cuthbert  Wright 


23  Emilia 

HALFWAY  up  the  Hemlock  valley  turnpike, 
In  the  bend  of  Silver  Water's  arm, 
Where  the  deer  come  trooping  down  at  even, 
Drink  the  cowslip  pool,  and  fear  no  harm, 

Dwells  Emilia, 
Flower  of  the  fields  of  Camlot  Farm. 

Sitting  sewing  by  the  western  window 
As  the  too  brief  mountain  sunshine  flies, 

Hast  thou  seen  a  slender-shouldered  figure 
With  a  chestnut  braid,  Minerva-wise, 

Round  her  temples, 
Shadowing  her  gray,  enchanted  eyes? 

When  the  freshets  flood  the  Silver  Water, 
When  the  swallow  flying  northward  braves 

Sleeting  rains  that  sweep  the  birchen  foothills 
Where  the  wildflowers'  pale  plantation  waves  — 

(Fairy  gardens 
Springing  from  the  dead  leaves  in  their  graves), 

34 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Falls  forgotten,  then,  Emilia's  needle; 

Ancient  ballads,  fleeting  through  her  brain, 
Sing  the  cuckoo  and  the  English  primrose, 

Outdoors  calling  with  a  quaint  refrain; 
And  a  rainbow 

Seems  to  brighten  through  the  gusty  rain. 

Forth  she  goes,  in  some  old  dress  and  faded, 
Fearless  of  the  showery,  shifting  wind; 

Kilted  are  her  skirts  to  clear  the  mosses, 
And  her  bright  braids  in  a  'kerchief  pinned, 

Younger  sister 
Of  the  damsel-errant  Rosalind. 

When  she  helps  to  serve  the  harvest  supper 

In  the  lantern-lighted  village  hall, 
Moonlight  rises  on  the  burning  woodland, 

Echoes  dwindle  from  the  distant  Fall. 
Hark,  Emilia! 

In  her  ear  the  airy  voices  call. 

Hidden  papers  in  the  dusky  garret, 
Where  her  few  and  secret  poems  lie,  — 

Thither  flies  her  heart  to  join  her  treasure, 
While  she  serves,  with  absent-musing  eye, 

Mighty  tankards 
Foaming  cider  in  the  glasses  high. 

"Would  she  mingle  with  her  young  companions!" 

Vainly  do  her  aunts  and  uncles  say; 
Ever,  from  the  village  sports  and  dances, 
Early  missed,  Emilia  slips  away. 

Whither  vanished? 
With  what  unimagined  mates  to  play? 

35 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Did  they  seek  her,  wandering  by  the  water, 
They  should  find  her  comrades  shy  and  strange: 

Queens  and  princesses,  and  saints  and  fairies, 
Dimly  moving  in  a  cloud  of  change: 

Desdemona; 
Mariana  of  the  Moated  Grange. 

Up  this  valley  to  the  fair  and  market 

When  young  farmers  from  the  southward  ride, 
Oft  they  linger  at  a  sound  of  chanting 
In  the  meadows  by  the  turnpike  side; 

Long  they  listen, 
Deep  in  fancies  of  a  fairy  bride. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn 


24  The  Interpreter 

IN  the  very  early  morning  when  the  light  was  low, 
She  got  all  ready  and  she  went  like  snow, 
Like  snow  in  the  springtime  on  a  sunny  hill, 
And  we  were  only  frightened  and  can't  think  still. 

We  can't  think  quite  that  the  katydids  and  frogs 
And  the  little  cheeping  chickens  and  the  little  grunting  hogs, 
And  the  other  living  things  that  she  spoke  for  to  us 
Have  nothing  more  to  tell  her  since  it  happened  thus. 

She  never  is  around  for  anyone  to  touch, 
But  of  ecstasy  and  longing  she  too  knew  much.  .  .  . 
And  always  when  anyone  has  time  to  call  his  own 
She.  will  come  and  be  beside  him  as  quiet  as  a  stone. 
Contemporary  Verse  Orrick  Johns 

36 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


25  The  Look 

STREPHON  kissed  me  in  the  spring, 
Robin  in  the  fall, 
But  Colin  only  looked  at  me 
And  never  kissed  at  all. 

Strephon's  kiss  was  lost  in  jest, 

Robin's  lost  in  play, 
But  the  kiss  in  Colin's  eyes 

Haunts  me  night  and  day. 
Harper's  Magazine  Sara  Teasdale 


26  " Immortal  Love" 


OTHOU  who  clothest  thyself  in  mystic  form,  — 
Color,  and  gleam,  and  lonely  distances; 
Whose  seat  the  majesty  of  ocean  is, 
Shot  o'er  with  motions  of  the  skyey  storm! 
Thou  with  whose  mortal  breath  the  soul  doth  warm 
Her  being,  soaring  to  eternal  bliss; 
Whose  revelation  unto  us  is  this 
Dilated  world,  starred  with  its  golden  swarm! 

Thee  rather  in  myself  than  heaven's  vast  light 
Flooding  the  daybreak,  better  I  discern; 

The  glorious  morning  makes  all  nature  bright, 
But  in  the  soul  doth  riot  more,  and  burn; 

A  thousand  beauties  rush  upon  my  sight, 
But  to  the  greater  light  within  I  turn. 

37 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


I  know  not  who  thou  art  to  whom  I  pray, 

Or  that  indeed  thou  art,  apart  from  me; 

A  dweller  in  a  lone  eternity, 
Or  a  participant  of  my  sad  way. 
I  only  know  that  at  the  fall  of  day 

Fain  would  I  in  thy  world  companion  thee; 

Upon  the  mystery  of  thy  breast  to  be 
Unconscious,  and  within  thy  love  to  stay. 

I  lose  thee  in  the  largeness  when  I  think; 

And  when  again  I  feel,  I  find  thee  nigh; 
The  more  my  mind  goes  out  to  nature's  brink, 

The  more  thou  art  removed  like  the  sky; 
But  when  concentrated  in  love  I  sink, 

Thou  art  my  nucleus;  there  I  live  and  die. 


in 

Immortal  Love,  too  high  for  my  possessing,  — 

Yet,  lower  than  thee,  where  shall  I  find  repose? 

Long  in  my  youth  I  sang  the  morning  rose, 
By  earthly  things  the  heavenly  pattern  guessing! 
Long  fared  I  on,  beauty  and  love  caressing, 

And  finding  in  my  heart  a  place  for  those 

Eternal  fugitives;  the  golden  close 
Of  evening  folds  me,  still  their  sweetness  blessing. 

O  happy  we,  the  first-born  heirs  of  nature, 
For  whom  the  Heavenly  Sun  delays  his  light! 

38 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  by  the  sweets  of  every  mortal  creature 

Tempers  eternal  beauty  to  our  sight; 
And  by  the  glow  upon  love's  earthly  feature 

Maketh  the  path  of  our  departure  bright. 
Scribner's  Magazine  George  Edward  Woodberry 


27  Peter  Quince  at  the  Clavier 


JUST  as  my  fingers  on  these  keys 
Make  music,  so  the  self-same  sounds 
On  my  spirit  make  a  music,  too. 

Music  is  feeling,  then,  not  sound; 
And  thus  it  is  that  what  I  feel, 
Here  in  this  room,  desiring  you, 

Thinking  of  your  blue-shadowed  silk, 
Is  music.     It  is  like  the  strain 
Waked  in  the  elders  by  Susanna: 

Of  a  green  evening,  clear  and  warm, 
She  bathed  in  her  still  garden,  while 
The  red-eyed  elders,  watching,  felt 

The  basses  of  their  beings  throb 

In  witching  chords,  and  their  thin  blood 

Pulse  pizzicati  of  Hosanna. 

II 

In  the  green  water,  clear  and  warm, 
Susanna  lay. 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

She  searched 

The  touch  of  Springs, 

And  found 

Concealed  imaginings. 

She  sighed, 

For  so  much  melody. 

Upon  the  bank,  she  stood 

In  the  cool 

Of  spent  emotions. 

She  felt,  among  the  leaves, 

The  dew 

Of  old  devotions. 

She  walked  upon  the  grass, 

Still  quavering. 

The  winds  were  like  her  maids, 

On  timid  feet, 

Fetching  her  woven  scarves, 

Yet  wavering. 

A  breath  upon  her  hand 
Muted  the  night. 
She  turned  — 
A  cymbal  crashed, 
And  roaring  horns. 

in 

Soon,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines, 
Came  her  attendant  Byzantines. 

They  wondered  why  Susanna  cried 
Against  the  elders  by  her  side; 
40 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  as  they  whispered,  the  refrain 
Was  like  a  willow  swept  by  rain. 

Anon,  their  lamps'  uplifted  flame 
Revealed  Susanna  and  her  shame. 

And  then,  the  simpering  Byzantines, 
Fled,  with  a  noise  like  tambourines. 


IV 

Beauty  is  momentary  in  the  mind  — 
The  fitful  tracing  of  a  portal; 
But  in  the  flesh  it  is  immortal. 

The  body  dies;  the  body's  beauty  lives, 
So  evenings  die,  in  their  green  going, 
A  wave,  interminably  flowing. 
So  gardens  die,  their  meek  breath  scenting 
The  cowl  of  Winter,  done  repenting. 
So  maidens  die,  to  the  auroral 
Celebration  of  a  maiden's  choral. 

Susanna's  music  touched  the  bawdy  strings 
Of  those  white  elders;  but,  escaping, 
Left  only  Death's  ironic  scraping. 

Now,  in  its  immortality,  it  plays 
On  the  clear  viol  of  her  memory, 
And  makes  a  constant  sacrament  of  praise. 
Others:  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse 

Wallace  Stevens 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


28  The  Unknown  Beloved 

I  DREAMED  I  passed  a  doorway 
Where  for  a  sign  of  death 
White  ribbons  one  was  binding 
About  a  flowery  wreath. 

What  drew  me  so  I  knew  not, 
But  drawing  near  I  said, 

"  Kind  sir,  and  will  you  tell  me 
Who  is  it  here  lies  dead?" 

Said  he,  "Your  most  beloved 
Died  here  this  very  day, 

That  had  known  twenty  Aprils 
Had  she  but  lived  till  May." 

Astonished  I  made  answer, 
"Good  sir,  how  say  you  so! 

Here  have  I  no  beloved, 
This  house  I  do  not  know." 

Quoth  he,  "Who  from  the  world's  end 

Was  destined  unto  thee 
Here  lies,  thy  true  beloved, 

Whom  thou  shalt  never  see." 

I  dreamed  I  passed  a  doorway 
Where  for  a  sign  of  death 

White  ribbons  one  was  binding 

About  a  flowery  wreath. 
The  Lyric  John  Hall  Wheelock 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


29  Patterns 

I  WALK  down  the  garden  paths, 
And  all  the  daffodils 
Are  blowing,  and  the  bright  blue  squills. 
I  walk  down  the  patterned  garden  paths 
In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 
With  my  powdered  hair  and  jewelled  fan, 
I  too  am  a  rare 
Pattern.    As  I  wander  down 
The  garden  paths. 

My  dress  is  richly  figured, 
And  the  train 

Makes  a  pink  and  silver  stain 
On  the  gravel,  and  the  thrift 
Of  the  borders. 

Just  a  plate  of  current  fashion, 
Tripping  by  in  high-heeled,  ribboned  shoes. 
Not  a  softness  anywhere  about  me, 
Only  a  whale-bone  and  brocade. 
,  And  I  sink  on  a  seat  in  the  shade 
Of  a  lime  tree.    For  my  passion 
Wars  against  the  stiff  brocade. 
The  daffodils  and  squills 
Flutter  in  the  breeze 
As  they  please. 
And  I  weep; 

For  the  lime  tree  is  in  blossom 
And  one  small  flower  has  dropped  upon  my  bosom. 

43 


pi 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  the  splashing  of  waterdrops 

In  the  marble  fountain 

Comes  down  the  garden  paths. 

The  dripping  never  stops. 

Underneath  my  stiffened  gown 

Is  the  softness  of  a  woman  bathing  in  a  marble  basin, 

A  basin  in  the  midst  of  hedges  grown 

So  thick,  she  cannot  see  her  lover  hiding, 

But  she  guesses  he  is  near, 

And  the  sliding  of  the  water 

Seems  the  stroking  of  a  dear 

Hand  upon  her. 

What  is  Summer  in  a  fine  brocaded  gown! 

I  should  like  to  see  it  lying  in  a  heap  upon  the  ground. 

All  the  pink  and  silver  crumpled  up  on  the  ground. 

I  would  be  the  pink  and  silver  as  I  ran  along  the  paths, 

And  he  would  stumble  after, 

Bewildered  by  my  laughter. 

I  should  see  the  sun  flashing  from  his  sword  hilt  and  the 

buckles  on  his  shoes. 
I  would  choose 

To  lead  him  in  a  maze  along  the  patterned  paths, 
A  bright  and  laughing  maze  for  my  heavy-booted  lover, 
Till  he  caught  me'in  the  shade, 
And  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat  bruised  my  body  as  he 

clasped  me, 

Aching,  melting,  unafraid. 

With  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  and  the  sundrops, 
And  the  plopping  of  the  waterdrops, 
All  about  us  in  the  open  afternoon  — 
I  am  very  like  to  swoon 

44 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

With  the  weight  of  this  brocade, 
For  the  sun  sifts  through  the  shade. 

Underneath  the  fallen  blossom 

In  my  bosom, 

Is  a  letter  I  have  hid. 

It  was  brought  to  me  this  morning  by  a  rider  from  the 

Duke. 

"Madam,  we  regret  to  inform  you  that  Lord  Hartwell 
Died  in  action  Thursday  sen 'night." 
As  I  read  it  in  the  white  morning  sunlight, 
The  letters  squirmed  like  snakes. 
"Any  answer,  Madam,"  said  my  footman. 
"No,"  I  told  him. 

"See  that  the  messenger  takes  some  refreshment. 
No,  no  answer." 
And  I  walked  into  the  garden, 
Up  and  down  the  patterned  paths, 
In  my  stiff,  correct  brocade. 

The  blue  and  yellow  flowers  stood  up  proudly  in  the  sun, 
Each  one. 

I  stood  upright  too, 
Held  rigid  to  the  pattern 
By  the  stiffness  of  my  gown. 
Up  and  down  I  walked, 
Up  and  down. 

In  a  month  he  would  have  been  my  husband. 
In  a  month,  here,  underneath  this  lime, 
We  would  have  broken  the  pattern; 
He  for  me,  and  I  for  him, 
He  as  Colonel,  I  as  lady, 

45 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

On  this  shady  seat. 

He  had  a  whim 

That  sunlight  carried  blessing. 

And  I  answered,  "It  shall  be  as  you  have  said.'* 

Now  he  is  dead. 

In  Summer  and  in  Winter  I  shall  walk 

Up  and  down 

The  patterned  garden  paths 

In  my  stiff,  brocaded  gown. 

The  squills  and  daffodils 

Will  give  place  to  pillared  roses,  and  to  asters,  and  to  snow. 

I  shall  go 

Up  and  down, 

In  my  gown. 

Gorgeously  arrayed, 

Boned  and  stayed. 

And  the  softness  of  my  body  will  be  guarded  from  embrace 

By  each  button,  hook,  and  lace. 

For  the  man  who  should  loose  me  is  dead, 

Fighting  with  the  Duke  in  Flanders,        • 

In  a  pattern  called  a  war. 

Christ!    What  are  patterns  for? 

The  Little  Review  Amy  Lowell 

30  Evensong 

'  This  song  is  of  no  importance, 

I  will  only  improvise; 

Yet,  maybe,  here  and  there, 

Suddenly  from  these  sounds  a  chord  will  start 

And  piercingly  touch  my  heart. 
46 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


IN  the  pale  mauve  twilight,  streaked  with  orange, 
Exquisitely  sweet,  — 

She  leaned  upon  her  balcony  and  looked  across  the  street; 
And  across  the  huddled  roofs  of  the  misty  city, 
Across  the  hills  of  tenements,  so  gray, 
She  looked  into  the  west  with  a  young  and  infinite  pity, 
With  a  young  and  wistful  pity,  as  if  to  say 
The  dark  was  coming,  and  irresistible  night, 
Which  man  would  attempt  to  meet 
With  here  and  there  a  little  flickering  light.  .  .  . 
The  orange  faded,  the  housetops  all  were  black, 
And  a  strange  and  beautiful  quiet 
Came  unexpected,  came  exquisitely  sweet, 
On  market-place  and  street; 

And  where  were  lately  crowds  and  sounds  and  riot 
Was  a  gentle  blowing  of  wind,  a  murmur  of  leaves, 
A  single  step,  or  voice,  and  under  the  eaves 
The  scrambling  of  sparrows;  and  then  the  hush  swept  back. 


She  leaned  upon  her  balcony,  in  the  darkness, 

Folding  her  hands  beneath  her  chin; 

And  watched  the  lamps  begin 

Here  and  there  to  pierce  like  eyes  the  darkness,  — 

From  windows,  luminous  rooms, 

And  from  the  damp  dark  street 

Between  the  moving  branches,  and  the  leaves  with  rain 

still  sweet. 
It  was  strange:  the  leaves  thus  seen, 

47 


p 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

With  the  lamplight's  cold  bright  glare  thrown  up  among 

them,  — 

The  restless  maple  leaves, 

Twinkling  their  myriad  shadows  beneath  the  eaves,  — 
Were  lovelier,  almost,  than  with  sunlight  on  them, 
So  bright  they  were  with  young  translucent  green; 
Were  lovelier,  almost,  than  with  moonlight  on  them.  .  .  . 
And  looking  so  wistfully  across  the  city, 
With  such  a  young,  and  wise,  and  infinite  pity 
For  the  girl  who  had  no  lover 
To  walk  with  her  along  a  street  like  this, 
With  slow  steps  in  the  rain,  both  aching  for  a  kiss,  — 
It  seemed  as  if  all  evenings  were  the  same, 
As  if  all  evenings  came 
With  just  such  tragic  peacefulness  as  this; 
With  just  such  hint  of  loneliness  or  pain, 
The  quiet  after  rain. 

in 

Would  her  lover,  then,  grow  old  sooner  than  she, 

And  find  a  night  like  this  too  damp  to  walk? 

Would  he  prefer  to  stay  indoors  and  talk, 

Or  read  the  evening  paper,  while  she  sewed,  or  darned  a 

sock, 

And  listened  to  the  ticking  of  the  clock: 
Would  he  prefer  it  to  lamplight  on  a  tree? 
Would  he  be  old  and  tired, 
And,  having  all  the  comforts  he  desired, 
Take  no  interest  in  the  twilight  coming  down 
So  beautifully  and  quietly  on  the  town  ? 
Would  her  lover,  then,  grow  old  sooner  than  she? 

48 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

IV 

A  neighbor  started  singing,  singing  a  child  to  sleep. 

It  was  strange:  a  song  thus  heard,  — 

In  the  misty  evening,  after  an  afternoon  of  rain,  — 

Seemed  more  beautiful  than  happiness,  more  beautiful 

than  pain, 

Seemed  to  escape  the  music  and  the  word, 
Only,  somehow,  to  keep 

A  warmth  that  was  lovelier  than  the  song  of  any  bird. 
Was  it  because  it  came  up  through  this  tree, 
Through  the  lucent  leaves  that  twinkled  on  this  tree, 
With  the  bright  lamp  there  beneath  them  in  the  street? 
It  was  exquisitely  sweet: 

So  unaffected,  so  unconscious  that  it  was  heard. 
Or  was  it  because  she  looked  across  the  city, 
Across  the  hills  of  tenements,  so  black, 
And  thought  of  all  the  mothers  with  a  young  and  infinite 

pity?  .  .  . 

The  child  had  fallen  asleep,  the  hush  swept  back, 
The  leaves  hung  lifeless  on  the  tree. 


It  was  too  bad  the  sky  was  dark. 

A  cat  came  slinking  close  along  the  wall. 

For  the  moon  was  full  just  now,  and  in  the  park, 

If  the  sky  were  clear  at  all, 

The  lovers  upon  the  moonlight  grass  would  sprawl, 

And  whisper  in  the  shadows,  and  laugh,  and  there 

She  would  be  going,  maybe,  with  a  white  rose  in  her 

hair  .  .  . 

But  would  youth  at  last  grow  weary  of  these  things, 

49 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Of  the  ribbons  and  the  laces, 

And  the  latest  way  of  putting  up  one's  hair? 

Would  she  no  longer  care, 

In  that  undiscovered  future  of  recurring  springs, 

If,  growing  old  and  plain,  she  no  longer  turned  the  faces 

And  saw  the  people  stare? 

Would  she  hear  music  and  not  yearn 

To  take  her  lover's  arm  for  one  more  turn?  .  .  . 

The  leaves  hung  breathless  on  the  dripping  maple  tree, 

The  man  across  the  street  was  going  out. 

It  was  the  evening  made  her  think  such  things,  no  doubt. 

But  would  her  lover  grow  old  sooner  than  she?  .  .  . 

Only  the  evening  made  her  think  such  things,  no  doubt.  .  .  . 

VI 

And  yet,  and  yet,  — 

Seeing  the  tired  city,  and  the  trees  so  still  and  wet,  — 

It  seemed  as  if  all  evenings  were  the  same; 

As  if  all  evenings  came, 

Despite  her  smile  at  thinking  of  a  kiss, 

With  just  such  tragic  peacefulness  as  this; 

With  just  such  hint  of  loneliness  or  pain; 

The  perfect  quiet  that  comes  after  rain. 

The  Poetry  Review  of  America  Conrad  Aiken 


31  Waiting 

I  THOUGHT  my  heart  would  break 
Because  the  Spring  was  slow. 
I  said,  "How  long  young  April  sleeps 

Beneath  the  snow!" 
5° 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

But  when  at  last  she  came, 

And  buds  broke  in  the  dew, 
I  dreamed  of  my  lost  love, 

And  my  heart  broke,  too! 
Harper's  Magazine  Charles  Hanson  Towne 


32  The  Broken  Field 

1\  yf"Y  soul  is  a  dark  ploughed  field 
1VJL  In  the  cold  rain; 
My  soul  is  a  broken  field 
Ploughed  by  pain. 

Where  windy  grass  and  flowers 

Were  growing, 
The  field  lies  broken  now 

For  another  sowing. 

Great  Sower,  when  you  tread 

My  field  again, 
Scatter  the  furrows  there 

With  better  grain. 
The  Yale  Review  Sara  Teasdale 


33    "Grandmither,  Think  not  I  Forget" 

/^RANDMITHER,  think  not  I  forget,  when  I  come 
Vj  back  to  town, 

An'  wander  the  old  ways  again  an'  tread  them  up  an'  down. 
I  never  smell  the  clover  bloom,  nor  see  the  swallows  pass, 
Without  I  mind  how  good  ye  were  unto  a  little  lass. 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  never  hear  the  winter  rain  a-pelting  all  night  through, 
Without  I  think  and  mind  me  of  how  cold  it  falls  on  you. 
And  if  I  come  not  often  to  your  bed  beneath  the  thyme, 
Mayhap  't  is  that  I'd  change  wi'  ye,  and  gie  my  bed  for 
thine, 

Would  like  to  sleep  in  thine. 

I  never  hear  the  summer  winds  among  the  roses  blow, 
Without  I  wonder  why  it  was  ye  loved  the  lassie  so. 
Ye  gave  me  cakes  and  lollipops  and  pretty  toys  a  score,  — 
I  never  thought  I  should  come  back  and  ask  ye  now  for  more. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  still,  white  hands,  that  lie  upon 

your  breast, 

For  mine  do  beat  the  dark  all  night  and  never  find  me  rest; 
They  grope  among  the  shadows  an'  they  beat  the  cold 

black  air, 

They  go  seekin'  in  the  darkness,  an'  they  never  find  him 
there, 

As  They  never  find  him  there. 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  sightless  eyes,  that  I  may  never 

see 

His  own  a-burnin'  full  o'  love  that  must  not  shine  for  me. 
Grandmither,   gie  me  your  peaceful   lips,  white  as  the 

kirkyard  snow, 

For  mine  be  red  wi'  burnin'  thirst  an'  he  must  never  know. 
Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-stopped  ears,  that  I  may 

never  hear 

My  lad  a-singin'  in  the  night  when  I  am  sick  wi'  fear; 
A-singing  when  the  moonlight  over  a'  the  land  is  white  — 
Aw  God!     I'll  up  an'  go  to  him  a-singin'  in  the  night, 
A-callin'  in  the  night. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Grandmither,  gie  me  your  clay-cold  heart  that  has  forgot 

to  ache 
For  mine  be   fire  within   my  breast  and  yet  it  cannot 

break. 
It  beats  an'  throbs  forever  for  the  things  that  must  not 

be,- 

An*  can  ye  not  let  me  creep  in  an*  rest  awhile  by  ye? 
A  little  lass  afeard  o'  dark  slept  by  ye  years  agone  — 
Ah,  she  has  found  what  night  can  hold  'twixt  sunset  an' 

the  dawn! 

So  when  I  plant  the  rose  an*  rue  above  your  grave  for  ye, 
Ye '11  know  it's  under  rue  an*  rose  that  I  would  like  to  be, 

That  I  would  like  to  be. 
McClurc's  Magazine  Willa  Sibert  Gather 


34  Hungarian  Love-Lament 

THEY  say  the  cranes  last  night  did  cry 
Overhead. 

I  did  not  hear  them, 
For  in  a  hut  by  Tisza's  torrents 
My  love  lies  dead. 

I  heard  the  whinny  of  her  milk-white  steed 
Calling  to  her, 
That  heard  I. 
They  say  the  oak-tree's  leaves  are  sere  — 

What  care  I? 
I  have  some  faded  violets; 

Those  I  hold  dear  — 
She  gave  them  me. 

53 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

They  say  that  Szolnok's  field  's  afire; 

If  so,  I  care  not. 
That  could  not  keep  me  from  my  love 

Were  she  not  cold. 

Saw'st  Szolnok's  flames? 
Oh,  well,  they  could  not  warm  me; 

My  blood  is  chilled. 
They  say  three  gypsies  at  the  tavern 

Sang  their  songs. 

Let  them  sing! 
I  could  not  dance  — 
I  am  too  lonely  for  their  minstrelsy. 

I  wish  my  love  might  waken, 

But  she  cannot. 
Fresh  violets  she  would  bring  me, 

But  she  will  not. 

For  cold  in  death  she  lies,  by  Tisza's  torrents, 
And  she'll  not  come  again! 

She  cannot. 
Let  the  wild  cranes  cry,  far  and  high, 

Overhead. 
Lippincott's  Magazine  Ethel  Syford 


Old  Fairingdown 

SOFT  as  a  treader  on  mosses 
I  go  through  the  village  that  sleeps; 
The  village  too  early  abed, 
For  the  night  still  shuffles,  a  gypsy, 
In  the  woods  of  the  east, 
And  the  west  remembers  the  sun. 

54 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Not  all  are  asleep;  there  are  faces 
That  lean  from  the  walls  of  the  gardens. 
Look  sharply,  or  you  will  not  see  them, 
Or  think  them  another  stone  in  the  wall. 
I  spoke  to  a  ston^,  and  it  answered 
Like  an  aged  rock  that  crumbles 
Each  falling  piece  was  a  word. 
"Five  have  I  buried,"  it  said, 
"And  seven  are  over  the  sea." 

Here  is  a  hut  that  I  pass, 

So  lowly  it  has  no  brow, 

And  dwarfs  sit  within  at  a  table. 

A  boy  waits  apart  by  the  hearth; 

On  his  face  is  the  patience  of  firelight, 

But  his  eyes  seek  the  door  and  a  far-world. 

It  is  not  the  call  to  the  table  he  waits, 

But  the  call  of  the  sea-rimmed  forests, 

And  cities  that  stir  in  a  dream. 

I  haste  by  the  low-browed  door, 

Lest  my  arms  go  in  and  betray  me, 

A  mother  jealously  passing. 

He  will  go,  the  pale  dwarf,  and  walk  tall  among  giants; 

The  child  with  his  eyes  on  the  far  land, 

And  fame  like  a  young  curled  leaf  in  his  heart. 

The  stream  that  darts  from  the  hanging  hill 

Like  a  silver  wing  that  must  sing  as  it  flies, 

Is  folded  and  still  on  the  breast 

Of  the  village  that  sleeps. 

Each  mute  old  house  is  more  old  than  the  other, 

And  each  wears  its  vines  like  ragged  hair 

55 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Round  the  half-blind  windows. 

If  a  child  should  laugh,  if  a  girl  should  sing, 

Would  the  houses  rub  the  vines  from  their  eyes, 

And  listen  and  live? 

A  voice  comes  now  from  a  cottage, 

A  voice  that  is  young  and  must  sing, 

A  honeyed  stab  on  the  air, 

And  the  houses  do  not  wake. 

I  look  through  the  leaf-blowsed  window, 

And  start  as  a  gazer  who,  passing  a  death-vault, 

Sees  Life  sitting  hopeful  within. 

She  is  young,  but  a  woman,  round-breasted, 

Waiting  the  peril  of  Eve; 

And  she  makes  the  shadows  about  her  sweet 

As  the  glooms  that  play  in  a  pine-wood. 

She  sits  at  a  harpsichord  (old  as  the  walls  are), 

And  longing  flows  in  the  trickling,  fairy  notes 

Like  a  hidden  brook  in  a  forest 

Seeking  and  seeking  the  sun. 

I  have  watched  a  young  tree  on  the  edge  of  a  wood 
When  the  mist  is  weaving  and  drifting; 
Slowly  the  boughs  disappear,  and  the  leaves  reach  out 
Like  the  drowning  hands  of  children, 
Till  a  grey  blur  quivers  cold 
Where  the  green  grace  drank  of  the  sun. 
So  now,  as  I  gaze,  the  morrows 
Creep  weaving  and  winding  their  mist 
Round  the  beauty  of  her  who  sings. 
They  hide  the  soft  rings  of  her  hair, 
Dear  as  a  child's  curling  fingers; 
56 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

They  shut  out  the  trembling  sun  of  eyes 

That  are  deep  as  a  bending  mother's; 

And  her  bridal  body  is  scarfed  with  their  chill. 

For  old,  and  old,  is  the  story; 

Over  and  over  I  hear  it, 

Over  and  over  I  listen  to  murmurs 

That  are  always  the  same  in  these  towns  that  sleep; 

Where,  grey  and  unwed,  a  woman  passes, 

Her  cramped,  drab  gown  the  bounds  of  a  world 

She  holds  with  grief  and  silence; 

And  a  gossip  whose  tongue  alone  is  unwithered 

Mumbles  the  tale  by  her  affable  gate; 

How  the  lad  must  go,  and  the  girl  must  stay, 

Singing  alone  to  the  years  and  a  dream; 

Then  a  letter,  a  rumor,  a  word, 

From  the  land  that  reaches  for  lovers 

And  gives  them  not  back; 

And  the  maiden  looks  up  with  a  face  that  is  old; 

Her  smile,  as  her  body,  is  evermore  barren; 

Her  cheek  like  the  bark  of  the  beech-tree 

Where  climbs  the  grey  winter. 

Now  have  I  seen  her  young, 

The  lone  girl  singing, 

With  the  full,  round  breast  and  the  berry  lip, 

And  heart  that  runs  to  a  dawn-rise 

On  new-world  mountains. 

The  weeping  ash  in  the  dooryard 

Gathers  the  song  in  its  boughs, 

And  the  gown  of  dawn  she  will  never  wear. 

57 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  can  listen  no  more;  good-by,  little  town,  old  Fairingdown. 

I  climb  the  long,  dark  hill  side, 

But  the  ache  I  have  found  here  I  cannot  outclimb. 

O  Heart,  if  we  had  not  heard,  if  we  did  not  know 

There  is  that  in  the  village  that  never  will  sleep! 

Hampshire,  England. 

Scribner's  Magazine  Olive  Tilford  Dargan 


36  Motherhood 

MARY,  the  Christ  long  slain,  passed  silently, 
Following  the  children  joyously  astir 
Under  the  cedrus  and  the  olive-tree, 
Pausing  to  let  their  laughter  float  to  her. 
Each  voice  an  echo  of  a  voice  more  dear, 
She  saw  a  little  Christ  in  every  face; 
When  lo,  another  woman,  gliding  near, 
Yearned  o'er  the  tender  life  that  filled  the  place. 
And  Mary  sought  the  woman's  hand,  and  spoke: 
"I  know  thee  not,  yet  know  thy  memory  tossed 
With  all  a  thousand  dreams  their  eyes  evoke 
Who  bring  to  thee  a  child  beloved  and  lost. 

"  I,  too,  have  rocked  my  little  one, 
O,  He  was  fair! 

Yea,  fairer  than  the  fairest  sun, 
And  like  its  rays  through  amber  spun 
His  sun-bright  hair. 
Still  I  can  see  it  shine  and  shine." 
"Even  so,"  the  woman  said,  "was  mine." 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"His  ways  were  ever  darling  ways,"  — 

And  Mary  smiled,  — 

"So  soft,  so  clinging!     Glad  relays 

Of  love  were  all  His  precious  days. 

My  little  child! 

My  infinite  star!     My  music  fled!" 

"Even  so  was  mine,"  the  woman  said. 

Then  whispered  Mary:  "Tell  me,  thou, 

Of  thine."     And  she: 

"O,  mine  was  rosy  as  a  bough 

Blooming  with  roses,  sent,  somehow, 

To  bloom  for  me! 

Jiis  balmy  fingers  left  a  thrill 

Within  my  breast  that  warms  me  still." 

Then  gazed  she  down  some  wilder,  darker  hour, 
And  said,  when  Mary  questioned,  knowing  not: 
"Who  art  thou,  mother  of  so  sweet  a  flower?" 
"I  am  the  mother  of  Iscariot." 
The  North  American  Review  Agnes  Lee 


The  Hill  Wife 

LONELINESS 

(Her  Word) 

ONE  ought  not  to  have  to  care 
So  much  as  you  and  I 
Care  when  the  birds  come  round  the  house 
To  seem  to  say  good-bye; 

59 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Or  care  so  much  when  they  come  back 

With  whatever  it  is  they  sing; 
The  truth  being  we  are  as  much 

Too  glad  for  the  one  thing 

As  we  are  too  sad  for  the  other  here  — 
With  birds  that  fill  their  breasts 

But  with  each  other  and  themselves 
And  their  built  or  driven  nests. 

HOUSE    FEAR 

Always  —  I  tell  you  this  they  learned  — 
Always  at  night  when  they  returned 
To  the  lonely  house  from  far  away 
To  lamps  unlighted  and  fire  gone  gray, 
They  learned  to  rattle  the  lock  and  key 
To  give  whatever  might  chance  to  be 
Warning  and  time  to  be  off  in  flight: 
And  preferring  the  out-  to  the  in-door  night, 
They  learned  to  leave  the  house-door  wide 
Until  they  had  lit  the  lamp  inside. 


THE    SMILE 

(Her  Word) 

I  did  n't  like  the  way  he  went  away. 
That  smile!  It  never  came  of  being  gay. 
Still  he  smiled  —  did  you  see  him?  —  I  was  sure! 
Perhaps  because  we  gave  him  only  bread 
And  the  wretch  knew  from  that  that  we  were  poor. 
Perhaps  because  he  let  us  give  instead 
60 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Of  seizing  from  us  as  he  might  have  seized. 
Perhaps  he  mocked  at  us  for  being  wed, 
Or  being  very  young  (and  he  was  pleased) 
To  have  a  vision  of  us  old  and  dead). 
I  wonder  how  far  down  the  road  he's  got. 
He's  watching  from  the  woods  as  like  as  not. 

THE    OFT-REPEATED    DREAM 

She  had  no  saying  dark  enough 

For  the  dark  pine  that  kept 
Forever  trying  the  window-latch 

Of  the  room  where  they  slept. 

The  tireless  but  ineffectual  hands 

That  with  every  futile  pass 
Made  the  great  tree  seem  as  a  little  bird 

Before  the  mystery  of  glass! 

It  never  had  been  inside  the  room, 

And  only  one  of  the  two 
Was  afraid  in  an  oft-repeated  dream 

Of  what  the  tree  might  do. 

THE    IMPULSE 

It  was  too  lonely  for  her  there, 

And  too  wild, 
And  since  there  were  but  two  of  them, 

And  no  child, 

And  work  was  little  in  the  house, 

She  was  free, 
And  followed  where  he  furrowed  field, 

Or  felled  tree. 

61 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

She  rested  on  a  log  and  tossed 

The  fresh  chips, 
With  a  song  only  to  herself 

On  her  lips. 

And  once  she  went  to  break  a  bough 

Of  black  alder. 
She  strayed  so  far  she  scarcely  heard 

When  he  called  her  - 

And  did  n't  answer  —  did  n't  speak  — 

Or  return. 
She  stood,  and  then  she  ran  and  hid 

In  the  fern. 

He  never  found  her,  though  he  looked 

Everywhere, 
And  he  asked  at  her  mother's  house 

Was  she  there. 

Sudden  and  swift  and  light  as  that 

The  ties  gave, 
And  he  learned  of  finalities 

Beside  the  grave. 
The  Yale  Review  Robert  Frost 


38  The  Wife 

HE  sees  the  wife,  from  slim  young  comeliness, 
With  bearing  of  his  children  and  their  care, 
Grow  stooped  and  withered,  and  the  shining  hair 
That  was  his  pride  grow  thin  and  lustreless; 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Day  after  day,  with  wordless,  pained  distress, 
He  strives  to  ease  the  load  her  shoulders  bear, 
Lifting  a  burden  here,  a  burden  there, 
Or  offering  some  clumsy,  rare  caress. 

But  ah!  her  girl-face  never  was  so  fair, 
And  eyes  and  lips  that  answered  his  desire, 
Are  limned  with  sacred  meaning  to  him  now; 
To  his  rapt  sight,  an  angel  might  aspire 
To  claim  the  stature  of  her  soul,  or  wear 
The  halo  that  surrounds  her  mother-brow. 
The  Delineator  Anna  Spencer  Twitchell 


39  Needle  Travel 

I  SIT  at  home  and  sew, 
I  ply  my  needle  and  thread, 
But  the  trip  around  the  garment's  hem 
Is  not  the  path  I  tread; 
My  stitches  neat, 
With  their  rhythmic  beat, 
Keep  time  to  very  different  feet, 
On  a  different  journey  sped. 

Now,  glad  heart 

Tip-toe,  tip-toe, 

They  must  not  hear  you, 

They  must  not  know,. 

They  must  not  follow  where  you  go. 

63 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Bare,  brown  feet  on  the  dusty  road, 
Unbound  body  free  of  its  load, 
Limbs  that  need  no  stinging  goad 
Step,  step  out  on  the  dusty  road. 

Friends  to  greet  on  the  jolly  road, 

Lopeing  rabbit,  and  squatting  toad, 

Beetle,  trundling  along  with  your  load; 

Hey,  little  friends, 

Good-day,  good-morrow, 

You  see  me  to-day, 

You  forget  me  to-morrow. 

Time  to  chase  you  across  the  road, 
Lopeing  rabbit,  and  poke  you,  toad, 
Upset  you,  beetle  with  your  load; 
Hey,  little  friends, 
Good-day. 

Bare,  brown  feet  in  the  shelving  pool, 
Unbound  body,  relaxed  and  cool, 
Limbs  lying  bare  and  beautiful; 
Hey,  green  pool, 
Good-day,  good-morrow, 
You  hold  me  to-day, 
You  forget  me  to-morrow. 

Time  to  float  in  you,  rapt  and  cool, 
Swim  the  rapids  above  you,  pool, 
Dive  in  your  waters  bountiful; 
Hey,  sweet  friend, 
Good-day. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

I  sit  at  home  and  sew, 
I  ply  my  needle  and  thread, 
But  the  trip  around  the  garment's  hem 
Is  not  the  path  I  tread. 
The  Masses  Margaret  French  Potion 


40  Cradle  Song 


LORD  GABRIEL,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 
Cheek  lies  heavy  as  a  rose, 
.And  his  eyelids  close? 

Gabriel,  when  that  hush  may  be, 
This  sweet  hand  all  heedfully 
I  '11  undo,  for  thee  alone, 
From  his  mother's  own. 

Then  the  far  blue  highways  paven 
With  the  burning  stars  of  heaven 
He  shall  gladden  with  the  sweet 
Hasting  of  his  feet  — 

Feet  so  brightly  bare  and  cool, 
Leaping,  as  from  pool  to  pool; 
From  a  little  laughing  boy 
Splashing  rainbow  joy! 

Gabriel,  wilt  thou  understand 
How  to  keep  his  hovering  hand  ?  — 
Never  shut,  as  in  a  bond 
From  the  bright  beyond:  — 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Nay,  but  though  it  cling  and  close 
Tightly  as  a  climbing  rose, 
Clasp  it  only  so,  —  aright, 
Lest  his  heart  take  fright. 

(Dormi,  dormi,  tu: 

The  dusk  is  hung  with  blue.} 


Lord  Michael,  wilt  not  thou  rejoice 
When  at  last  a  little  boy's 

Heart,  a  shut-in  murmuring  bee, 
Turns  him  unto  thee? 

Wilt  thou  heed  thine  armor  well,  — 
To  take  his  hand  from  Gabriel 
So  his  radiant  cup  of  dream 
May  not  spill  a  gleam? 

He  will  take  thy  heart  in  thrall, 
Telling  o'er  thy  breastplate,  all 
Colors,  in  his  bubbling  speech, 
With  his  hand  to  each. 

(Dormi,  dormi  tu. 

Sapphire  is  the  blue; 

Pearl  and  beryl,  they  are  called, 

Chrysoprase  and  emerald, 

Sard  and  amethyst. 

.Numbered  so,  and  kissed.} 
66 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Ah,  but  find  some  angel  word 
For  thy  sharp,  subduing  sword! 
Yea,  Lord  Michael,  make  no  doubt 
He  will  find  it  out: 

(Dormi)  dormi  tu!) 

His  eyes  will  look  at  you. 

in 

Last,  a  little  morning  space, 
Lead  him  to  that  leafy  place 
Where  Our  Lady  sits  awake, 
For  all  mothers'  sake. 

Bosomed  with  the  Blessed  One, 
He  shall  mind  her  of  her  Son, 
Once  so  folded  from  all  harms, 
In  her  shrining  arms. 

(In  her  veil  of  blue, 
Dormi)  dormi  tu.) 

So;  —  and  fare  thee  well.  — 
Softly,  —  Gabriel  .  .  . 
When  the  first  faint  red  shall  come, 
Bid  the  Day-star  lead  him  home, 
For  the  bright  World's  sake,  — 
To  my  heart,  awake. 
Scribners  Magazine  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


41  The  Bacchante  to  her  Babe 

Scherzo 

E,  sprite,  and  dance!     The  sun  is  up, 
The  wind  runs  laughing  down  the  sky 
That  brims  with  morning  like  a  cup. 
Sprite,  we  must  race  him, 
We  must  chase  him  — 
You  and  I! 

And  skim  across  the  fuzzy  heather  — 
You  and  joy  and  I  together 
Whirling  by! 

You  merry  little  roll  of  fat!  — 
Made  warm  to  kiss,  and  smooth  to  pat, 
And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub; 
To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub 
And  breathe  you  in  like  breath  of  kine, 
Like  juice  of  vine, 

That  sets  my  morning  heart  a-tingling, 
Dancing,  jingling, 
All  the  glad  abandon  mingling 
Of  wind  and  wine! 

Sprite,  you  are  love,  and  you  are  joy, 
A  happiness,  a  dream,  a  toy, 
A  god  to  laugh  with, 
Love  to  chaff  with, 
The  sun  come  down  in  tangled  gold, 
The  moon  to  kiss,  and  spring  to  hold. 
68 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

There  was  a  time  once,  long  ago, 
Long  —  oh,  long  since  ...  I  scarcely  know. 
Almost  I  had  forgot  .  .  . 
There  was  a  time  when  you  were  not, 
You  merry  sprite,  save  as  a  strain, 
The  strange  dull  pain 
Of  green  buds  swelling 
In  warm,  straight  dwelling 
That  must  burst  to  the  April  rain. 
A  little  heavy  I  was  then 
And  dull  —  and  glad  to  rest.     And  when 
The  travail  came 
In  searing  flame  .  .  . 
But,  sprite,  that  was  so  long  ago!  — 
A  century!  —  I  scarcely  know. 
Almost  I  had  forgot 
When  you  were  not. 

So,  little  sprite,  come  dance  with  me! 
The  sun  is  up,  the  wind  is  free! 
Come  now  and  trip  it, 
Romp  and  skip  it, 
Earth  is  young  and  so  are  we. 
Sprite,  you  and  I  will  dance  together 
On  the  heather, 

Glad  with  all  the  procreant  earth, 
With  all  the  fruitage  of  the  trees, 
And  golden  pollen  on  the  breeze, 
W7ith  plants  that  bring  the  grain  to  birth, 
With  beast  and  bird, 
Feathered  and  furred, 
With  youth  and  hope  and  life  and  love, 

69 


pj 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  joy  thereof  — 

While  we  are  part  of  all,  we  two  — 

For  my  glad  burgeoning  in  you! 

So,  merry  little  roll  of  fat, 
Made  warm  to  kiss  and  smooth  to  pat 
And  round  to  toy  with,  like  a  cub, 
To  put  one's  nozzle  in  and  rub, 
My  god  to  laugh  with, 
Love  to  chaff  with, 
Come  and  dance  beneath  the  sky, 
You  and  I! 

Look  out  with  those  round  wondering  eyes, 
And  squirm,  and  gurgle  —  and  grow  wise! 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Eunice  Tietjens 


42  The  Son 

(Southern  Ohio  Market  Town) 

I  HEARD  an  old  farm-wife, 
Selling  some  barley, 
Mingle  her  life  with  life 
And  the  name  "Charley." 

Saying:  "The  crop  's  all  in, 
We're  about  through  now; 

Long  nights  will  soon  begin, 

We're  just  us  two  now. 
70 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Twelve  bushel  at  sixty  cents, 

It's  all  I  carried  — 
He  sickened  making  fence; 

He  was  to  be  married  — 

"It  feels  like  frost  was  near  — 

His  hair  was  curly. 
The  spring  was  late  that  year. 

But  the  harvest  early." 
The  New  Republic  Ridgely  Torre  net 


43    With  Cassock  Black,  Baret  and  Book 

WITH  cassock  black,  baret  and  book, 
Father  Saran  goes  by; 
I  think  he  goes  to  say  a  prayer 
For  one  who  has  to  die. 

Even  so,  some  day,  Father  Saran 

May  say  a  prayer  for  me; 
Myself  meanwhile,  the  Sister  tells, 

Should  pray  unceasingly. 

They  kneel  who  pray:  how  may  I  kneel 

Who  face  to  ceiling  lie, 
Shut  out  by  all  that  man  has  made 

From  God  who  made  the  sky? 

They  lift  who  pray  —  the  low  earth-born  — 

A  humble  heart  to  God: 
But  O,  my  heart  of  clay  is  proud  -- 

True  sister  to  the  sod. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  look  into  the  face  of  God, 

They  say  bends  over  me; 
I  search  the  dark,  dark  face  of  God  — 

O  what  is  it  I  see? 

I  see  —  who  lie  fast  bound,  who  may 
Not  kneel,  who  can  but  seek  — 

I  see  mine  own  face  over  me, 
With  tears  upon  its  cheek. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Grace  Fallow  Norton 

44  Moods 


AN   ASTRONOMER 

ON  a  lone  hillside 
A  Navajo  shepherd 
Wrapt  in  his  blanket, 
Hugged  his  knees, 
Dreamed  into  the  night  — 
A  wisp  of  a  crescent, 
A  sky  full  of  stars  — 
In  his  thought 
He  was  asking: 
"Do  my  lanterns 
Shine  up  to  the  stars?" 

ii 

A   VASE    OF   CHINESE    IVORY 

In  the  museum 
It  had  no  name: 
72 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

It  was  only  the  life  work 

Of  one  almond-eyed  heathen  — 

Just  one  of  a  million! 

Look  closer 

And  you  will  see 

A  soul, 

Unique  and  beautiful. 

ill 

MESSAGES 

He  plodded  along 

The  deep-rutted  road, 

The  old 'farmer, 

Face  as  red  as  sumach, 

Wind-colored; 

Happy. 

The  bee-drone  hum 

Of  wires  overhead 

Was  song  and  laughter  to  him, 

Yet  the  wires  were  laden 

With  messages  of  strife,  and  sorrow,  and  sin. 

IV 
THE    HEIGHTS 

Alone, 

On  a  high  mountain  trail, 

I  drew  strength  from  the  sky; 

My  thoughts  went  out 

Like  my  shadow  at  sunset: 

I  grew  great  as  my  shadow  at  sunset. 

73 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


SOLITUDE 

Youth! 

If  there  be  madness 
In  your  soul, 

Go  to  the  mountain  solitudes 
Where  you  can  grow  up 
To  your  madness. 
The  Little  Review  David  O'Neil 


45  Cinquains 


TRIAD 

THESE   be 
Three  silent  things: 
The  falling  snow  .  .  .  the  hour 
Before  the  dawn  .  .  .  the  mouth  of  one 
Just  dead. 


MOON-SHADOWS 

Still  as 

On  windless  nights 

The  moon-cast  shadows  are, 

So  still  will  be  my  heart  when  I 

Am  dead. 


74 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 
in 

SUSANNA   AND  THE    ELDERS 

"Why  do 

You  thus  devise 

Evil  against  her?"     "For  that 

She  is  beautiful,  delicate; 

Therefore." 

IV 
NIGHT   WINDS 

The  old 

Old  winds  that  blew 

When  chaos  was,  what  do 

They  tell  the  clattered  trees  that  I 

Should  weep? 

v 

AMAZE 

I  know 

Not  these  hands 

And  yet  I  think  there  was 

A  woman  like  me  once  had  hands 

Like  these. 

VI 
THE   WARNING 

Just  now, 
Out  of  the  strange 

Still  dusk  ...  as  strange,  as  still  .  .  . 
A  white  moth  flew.  .  .  .  Why  am  I  grown 
So  cold? 
Others:  A  Magazine  of  the  New  Verse 

Adelaide  Crapsey 
7S 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


46  The  Regents'  Examination 

TV  /TUFFLED  sounds  of  the  city  climbing  to  me  at  the 
1VA  window, 

Here  in  the  summer  noon-tide  students  busily  writing, 
Children  of  quaint-clad  immigrants,  fresh  from  the  hut 

and  the  Ghetto, 

Writing  of  pious  ^Eneas  and  funeral  rites  of  Anchises. 
Old-World  credo  and  custom,  alien  accents  and  features, 
Plunged  in  the  free-school  hopper,  grist  for  the  Anglo- 
Saxons  — 
Old-World    sweetness    and    light,    and    fiery   struggle  of 

heroes, 
Flashed  on  the  blinking  peasants,  dull  with  the  grime  of 

their  bondage! 
Race  that  are  infant  in  knowledge,  ancient  in  grief  and 

traditions  — 
Lore  that  is  tranquil  with  age  and  starry  with  gleams  of 

the  future  — 
What  is  the  thing  that  will  come  from  the  might  of  the 

elements  blending? 

Neuter  and  safe  shall  it  be?  Or  a  flame  to  burst  us  asunder? 
Scribners  Magazine  Jessie  Wallace  Hughan 


47  Train-Mates 

OUTSIDE  hove  Shasta,  snowy  height  on  height, 
A  glory;  but  a  negligible  sight, 
For  you  had  often  seen  a  mountain-peak 
But  not  my  paper.    So  we  came  to  speak.  , 
76 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

A  smoke,  a  smile,  —  a  good  way  to  commence 
The  comfortable  exchange  of  difference!  — 
You  a  young  engineer,  five  feet  eleven, 
Forty-five  chest,  with  football  in  your  heaven, 
Liking  a  road-bed  newly  built  and  clean, 
Your  fingers  hot  to  cut  away  the  green 
Of  brush  and  flowers  that  bring  beside  a  track 
The  kind  of  beauty  steel  lines  ought  to  lack,  — 
And  I  a  poet,  wistful  of  my  betters, 
Reading  George  Meredith's  high-hearted  letters, 
Joining  betweenwhile  in  the  mingled  speech 
Of  a  drummer,  circus-man,  and  parson,  each 
Absorbing  to  himself —  as  I  to  me 
And  you  to  you  —  a  glad  identity! 

After  a  time,  when  the  others  went  away, 
A  curious  kinship  made  us  choose  to  stay, 
Which  I  could  tell  you  now;  but  at  the  time 
You  thought  of  baseball  teams  and  I  of  rhyme, 
Until  we  found  that  we  were  college  men 
And  smoked  more  easily  and  smiled  again; 
And  I  from  Cambridge  cried,  the  poet  still: 
"I  know  your  fine  Greek  Theatre  on  the  hill 
At  Berkeley!"    With  your  happy  Grecian  head 
Upraised,  "I  never  saw  the  place,"  you  said. 
"Once  I  was  free  of  class,  I  always  went 
Out  to  the  field." 

Young  engineer,  you  meant 
As  fair  a  tribute  to  the  better  part 
As  ever  I  did.    Beauty  of  the  heart 
Is  evident  in  temples.    But  it  breathes 
Alive  where  athletes  quicken  curly  wreaths, 

77 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Which  are  the  lovelier  because  they  die. 

You  are  a  poet  quite  as  much  as  I, 

Though  differences  appear  in  what  we  do, 

And  I  am  athlete  quite  as  much  as  you. 

Because  you  half-surmised  my  quarter-mile 

And  I  your  quatrain,  we  could  greet  and  smile. 

Who  knows  but  we  shall  look  again  and  find 

The  circus-man  and  drummer,  not  behind 

But  leading  in  our  visible  estate, 

As  discus-thrower  and  as  laureate? 

The  Yale  Review  Witter  Bynner 


48  Thanksgiving  for  our  Task 

THE  sickle  is  dulled  of  the  reaping  and  the  threshing- 
floor  is  bare; 

The  dust  of  night  's  in  the  air. 
The  peace  of  the  weary  is  ours: 

All  day  we  have  taken  the  fruit  and  the  grain  and  the 
seeds  of  the  flowers. 

The  ev'ning  is  chill, 

It  is  good  now  to  gather  in  peace  by  the  flames  of  the  fire. 

We  have  done  now  the  deed  that  we  did  for  our  need  and 

desire: 
We  have  wrought  our  will. 

And  now  for  the  boon  of  abundance  and  golden  increase, 
And  immured  peace, 
Shall  we  thank  our  God? 

Bethink  us,  amid  His  indulgence,  His  terrible  rod? 
78 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Shall  we  be  as  the  maple  and  oak, 

Strew  the  earth  with  our  gold,  giving  only  bare  boughs  to 

the  sky? 
Nay,   the   pine  stayeth  green   while   the  Winter  growls 

sullenly  by, 
And  doth  not  revoke 

For  soft  days  or  stern  days  the  pledge  of  its  constancy. 
Shall  we  not  be 
Also  the  same  through  all  days, 

Giving  thanks  when  the  battle  breaks  on  us,  in  toil  giving 
praise? 

O  Father  who  saw  at  the  dawn, 

That  the  folly  of  Pride  would  be  the  lush  weed  of  our 

sin, 

There  is  better  than  that  in  our  hearts,  O  enter  therein, 
A  light  burneth,  though  wan 

And  weak  be  the  flame,  yet  it  gloweth,  our  Humility! 
Ah,  how  can  it  be 
Trimmed  o'  the  wick, 

And  replenished  with  oil  to  burn  brightly  and  golden  and 
quick? 

For  deep  in  our  hearts 

We  wish  to  be  thankful  through  lean  years  and  fat  with 
out  change, 

Knowing  that  here  Thou  hast  set  for  the  spirit  a  range: 
We  would  play  well  our  parts, 

Making  America  throb  with  the  building  of  souls  and  the 

glory  of  good; 
Yea,  and  we  would, 

79 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  before  the  last  Autumn  we  will 
Build  a  temple  from  ocean  to  ocean  where  deeds  never 
still 

Melodiously  shall  proclaim 

Thanksgiving  forever  that  Thou  hast  set  here  to  our  hand 
So  wondrous  a  mystical  harvest,  that  Thou  dost  demand 
Sheaves  bound  in  Thy  name, 

Yea,  supersubstantial  sheaves  of  strong  souls  that  have 

grown 

Fain  to  be  known 

As  the  corn  of  Thine  Occident  field: 
O  Yielder  of  All,  can  America  worthily  thank  Thee  till 

such  be  her  yield? 

In  the  mellowing  light 

Of  the  goldenest  days  that  precede  the  gray  days  of  the 

year, 
We  sing  Thee  our  harvesting  song  and  we  pray  Thee  to 

hear, 
In  the  midst  of  Thy  might: 

Labor  is  given  to  us, 

Let  us  give  thanks! 
Power  worketh  through  us, 

Let  us  give  thanks! 
Not  for  what  we  have 
(So  might  speak  a  slave), 
Not  for  the  garnering, 
Gratefully  we  sing, 
But  for  the  mighty  thing 
We  must  do,  travailing! 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

For  our  task  and  for  our  strength; 
For  the  journey  and  its  length; 
For  our  dauntless  eagerness; 
For  our  humbling  weariness; 
For  these,  for  these,  O  Father, 

Let  us  give  thanks! 
For  these,  O  Mighty  Father, 

Take  Thou  our  thanks! 
The  Forum  Shaemas  0  Shefl 


49  School 


OLD  Hezekiah  leaned  hard  on  his  hoe 
And  squinted  long  at  Eben,  his  lank  son. 
The  silence  shrilled  with  crickets.    Day  was  done, 

And,  row  on  dusky  row, 

Tall  bean  poles  ribbed  with  dark  the  gold-bright  after 
glow. 

Eben  stood  staring:  ever,  one  by  one, 
The  tendril  tops  turned  ashen  as  they  flared. 
Still  Eben  stared. 

Oh,  there  is  wonder  on  New  Hampshire  hills, 
Hoeing  the  warm  bright  furrows  of  brown  earth, 
And  there  is  grandeur  in  the  stone  wall's  birth, 

And  in  the  sweat  that  spills 

From  rugged  toil  its  sweetness;  yet  for  wild  young  wills 
There  is  no  dew  of  wonder,  but  stark  dearth, 
In  one  old  man  who  hoes  his  long  bean  rows, 

And  only  hoes. 

81 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Old  Hezekiah  turned  slow  on  his  heel. 

He  touched  his  son.  —  Through  all  the  carking  day 

There  are  so  many  littlish  cares  to  weigh 

Large  natures  down,  and  steel 
The    heart    of   understanding.  —  "Son,    how    is't    ye 

feel? 

What  are  ye  starin'  on  —  a  gal?"    A  ray 
Flushed  Eben  from  the  fading  afterglow: 

He  dropped  his  hoe. 

He  dropped  his  hoe,  but  sudden  stooped  again 
And  raised  it  where  it  fell.  Nothing  he  spoke, 
But  bent  his  knee  and  crack!  the  handle  broke, 

Splintering.    With  glare  of  pain, 
He  flung  the  pieces  down,  and   stamped   upon  them; 

then  — 

Like  one  who  leaps  out  naked  from  his  cloak  — 
Ran.    "Here,  come  back!    Where  are  ye  bound  —  you 
fool?" 

He  cried  — "To  school!" 

ii 

Now  on  the  mountain  Morning  laughed  with  light  — 
With  light  and  all  the  future  in  her  face, 
For  there  she  looked  on  many  a  far-off-place 

And  wild  adventurous  sight, 
For  which  the  mad  young  autumn  wind  hallooed  with 

might 

And  dared  the  roaring  mill-brook  to  the  race, 
Where  blue-jays  screamed  beyond  the  pine-dark  pool  — 

"To  school!  — To  school!" 
82 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Blackcoated,  Eben  took  the  barefoot  trail, 

Holding  with  wary  hand  his  Sunday  boots; 

Harsh  catbirds  mocked  his  whistling  with  their  hoots; 

Under  his  swallowtail 

Against  his  hip-strap  bumping,  clinked  his  dinner  pail; 
Frost  maples  flamed,  lone  thrushes  touched  their  lutes; 
Gray  squirrels  bobbed,  with  tails  stiff  curved  to  backs, 

To  eye  his  tracks. 

Soon  at  the  lonely  crossroads  he  passed  by 
The  little  one-room  schoolhouse.    He  peered  in. 
There  stood  the  bench  where  he  had  often  been 

Admonished  flagrantly 

To  drone  his  numbers:  Now  to  this  he  said  good-bye 
For  mightier  lure  of  more  romantic  scene: 
Goodbye  to  childish  rule  and  homely  chore 

Forevermore! 

All  day  he  hastened  like  the  flying  cloud 
Breathless  above  him,  big  with  dreams,  yet  dumb. 
With  tightened  jaw  he  chewed  the  tart  spruce  gum, 

And  muttered  half  aloud 

Huge  oracles.   At  last,  where  through  the  pine-tops  bowed 
The  sun,  it  rose!  —  His  heart  beat  like  a  drum. 
There,  there  it  rose  —  his  tower  of  prophecy: 

The  Academy! 

in 

They  learn  to  live  who  learn  to  contemplate, 
For  contemplation  is  the  unconfined 
God  who  creates  us.    To  the  growing  mind 
Freedom  to  think  is  fate, 

83 


p 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  all  that  age  and  after-knowledge  augurate 
Lies  in  a  little  dream  of  youth  enshrined: 
That  dream  to  nourish  with  the  skilful  rule 
Of  love  —  is  school. 

Eben,  in  mystic  tumult  of  his  teens, 

Stood  bursting  —  like  a  ripe  seed  —  into  soul. 

All  his  life  long  he  had  watched  the  great  hills  roll 

Their  shadows,  tints  and  sheens 

By  sun-  and  moon-rise;  yet  the  bane  of  hoeing  beans, 
And  round  of  joyless  chores,  his  father's  toll, 
Blotted  their  beauty;  nature  was  as  not: 

He  had  never  thought. 

But  now  he  climbed  his  boyhood's  castle  tower 
And  knocked:  Ah,  well  then  for  his  after-fate 
That  one  of  nature's  masters  opened  the  gate, 

Where  like  an  April  shower 
Live   influence   quickened    all  his  earth-blind   seed   to 

power. 

Strangely  his  sense  of  truth  grew  passionate, 
And  like  a  young  bull,  led  in  yoke  to  drink, 

He  bowed  to  think. 

There  also  bowed  their  heads  with  him  to  quaff  — 
The  snorting  herd!    And  many  a  wholesome  grip 
•  He  had  of  rivalry  and  fellowship. 
Often  the  game  was  rough, 

But  Eben  tossed  his  horns  and  never  called  it  off; 
For  still  through  play  and  task  his  Dream  would  slip  — 
A  radiant  Herdsman,  guiding  destiny 

To  his  degree. 
84 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

IV 

Once  more  old  Hezekiah  stayed  his  hoe 
To  squint  at  Eben.    Silent,  Eben  scanned 
A  little  roll  of  sheepskin  in  his  hand, 

While,  row  on  dusky  row, 

Tall  bean  poles  ribbed  with  dark  the  gold-bright  after 
glow. 

The  boy  looked  up:  Here  was  another  land! 
Mountain  and  farm  with  mystic  beauty  flared 

Where  Eben  stared. 

Stooping,  he  lifted  with  a  furtive  smile 

Two  splintered  sticks,  and  spliced  them.    Nevermore 

His  spirit  would  go  beastwise  to  his  chore 

Blinded,  for  even  while 

He  stooped  to  the  old  task,  sudden  in  the  sunset's  pile 
His  radiant  Herdsman  swung  a  fiery  door, 
Through  which  came  forth  with  far-borne  trumpetings 

Poets  and  kings, 

His  fellow  conquerors:  there  Virgil  dreamed, 
There  Caesar  fought  and  won  the  barbarous  tribes, 
There  Darwin,  pensive,  bore  the  ignorant  gibes, 

And  One  with  thorns  redeemed 
From  malice  the  wild   hearts  of  men:  there  flared  and 

gleamed 

With  chemic  fire  the  forges  of  old  scribes, 
Testing  anew  the  crucibles  of  toil 

To  save  God's  soil. 

So  Eben  turned  again  to  hoe  his  beans, 

But  now,  to  ballads  which  his  Herdsman  sung, 

85 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Henceforth  he  hoed  the  dream  in  with  the  dung, 

And  for  his  ancient  spleens 

Planting  new  joys,  imagination  found  him  means. 
At  last  old  Hezekiah  loosed  his  tongue: 
"Well,  boy,  this  school  —  what  has  it  learned  ye  to 
know?" 

He  said:  "To  hoe." 
The  Forum  Percy  MacKaye 


50  Yankee  Doodle 

[This  poem  is  intended  as  a  description  of  a  sort  of  Blashfield 
mural  painting  on  the  sky.  To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  "Yankee 
Doodle,"  yet  in  a  slower,  more  orotund  fashion.  It  is  presumably 
an  exercise  for  an  entertainment  on  the  evening  of  Washington's 
Birthday.l 

DAWN  this  morning  burned  all  red 
Watching  them  in  wonder. 
There  I  saw  our  spangled  flag 
Divide  the  clouds  asunder. 
Then  there  followed  Washington. 
Ah,  he  rode  from  glory, 
Cold  and  mighty  as  his  name 
And  stern  as  Freedom's  story. 
Unsubdued  by  burning  dawn 
Led  his  continentals. 
Vast  they  were,  and  strange  to  see 
In  gray  old  regimentals:  — 
Marching  still  with  bleeding  feet, 
Bleeding  feet  and  jesting  — 
Marching  from  the  judgment  throne 
With  energy  unresting. 
86 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

How  their  merry  quickstep  played  — 
Silver,  sharp,  sonorous, 
Piercing  through  with  prophecy 
The  demons'  rumbling  chorus  — 
Behold  the  ancient  powers  of  sin 
And  slavery  before  them!  — 
Sworn  to  stop  the  glorious  dawn, 
The  pit-black  clouds  hung  o'er  them. 
Plagues  that  rose  to  blast  the  day 
Fiend  and  tiger  faces, 
Monsters  plotting  bloodshed  for 
The  patient  toiling  races. 
Round  the  dawn  their  cannon  raged, 
Hurling  bolts  of  thunder, 
Yet  before  our  spangled  flag 
Their  host  was  cut  asunder. 
Like  a  mist  they  fled  away  .  .  . 
Ended  wrath  and  roaring. 
Still  our  restless  soldier-host 
From  East  to  West  went  pouring. 

High  beside  the  sun  of  noon 

They  bore  our  banner  splendid. 

All  its  days  of  stain  and  shame 

And  heaviness  were  ended. 

Men  were  swelling  now  the  throng 

From  great  and  lowly  station  — 

Valiant  citizens  to-day 

Of  every  tribe  and  nation. 

Not  till  night  their  rear-guard  came, 

Down  the  west  went  marching, 

And  left  behind  the  sunset-rays 


IP 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

In  beauty  overarching. 
War-god  banners  lead  us  still, 
Rob,  enslave  and  harry 
Let  us  rather  choose  to-day 
The  flag  the  angels  carry  — 
Flag  we  love,  but  brighter  far  — 
Soul  of  it  made  splendid: 
Let  its  days  of  stain  and  shame 
And  heaviness  be  ended. 
Let  its  fifes  fill  all  the  sky, 
Redeemed  souls  marching  after, 
Hills  and  mountains  shake  with  song, 
While  seas  roll  on  in  laughter. 
The  Metropolitan  Magazine  Vachel  Lindsay 


Cassandra 

I  HEARD  one  who  said:  "Verily, 
What  word  have  I  for  children  here? 
Your  Dollar  is  your  only  Word, 
The  wrath  of  it  your  only  fear. 

"You  built  it  altars  tall  enough 

To  make  you  see,  but  you  are  blind; 

You  cannot  leave  it  long  enough 
To  look  before  you  or  behind. 

"When  Reason  beckons  you  to  pause, 
You  laugh  and  say  that  you  know  best; 

But  what  it  is  you  know,  you  keep 
As  dark  as  ingots  in  a  chest. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"You  laugh  and  answer,  'We  are  young; 

O  leave  us  now,  and  let  us  grow.'  — 
Not  asking  how  much  more  of  this 

Will  Time  endure  or  Fate  bestow. 

"Because  a  few  complacent  years 
Have  made  your  peril  of  your  pride, 

Think  you  that  you  are  to  go  on 
Forever  pampered  and  untried? 

"What  lost  eclipse  of  history, 
What  bivouac  of  the  marching  stars, 

Has  given  the  sign  for  you  to  see 
Millenniums  and  last  great  wars? 

"What  unrecorded  overthrow 
Of  all  the  world  has  ever  known, 

Or  ever  been,  has  made  itself 
So  plain  to  you,  and  you  alone? 

"Your  Dollar,  Dove,  and  Eagle  make 

A  Trinity  that  even  you 
Rate  higher  than  you  rate  yourselves; 

It  pays,  it  flatters,  and  it's  new. 

"And  though  your  very  flesh  and  blood 
Be  what  your  Eagle  eats  and  drinks, 

You'll  praise  him  for  the  best  of  birds, 
Not  knowing  what  the  Eagle  thinks. 

"The  power  is  yours,  but  not  the  sight; 

You  see  not  upon  what  you  tread; 
You  have  the  ages  for  your  guide, 

But  not  the  wisdom  to  be  led. 

89 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"Think  you  to  tread  forever  down 
The  merciless  old  verities? 

And  are  you  never  to  have  eyes 
To  see  the  world  for  what  it  is? 


"Are  you  to  pay  for  what  you  have 
With  all  you  are?"  —  No  other  word 

We  caught,  but  with  a  laughing  crowd 

Moved  on.    None  heeded,  and  few  heard. 
The  Boston  Transcript  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


52  The  Bonfire 

OH,  let's  go  up  the  hill  and  scare  ourselves, 
As  reckless  as  the  best  of  them  to-night, 
By  setting  fire  to  all  the  brush  we  piled 
With  pitchy  hands  to  wait  for  rain  or  snow. 
Oh,  let's  not  wait  for  rain  to  make  it  safe. 
The  pile  is  ours:  we  dragged  it  bough  on  bough 
Down  dark  converging  paths  between  the  pines. 
Let's  not  care  what  we  do  with  it  to-night. 
Divide  it?     No!     But  burn  it  as  one  pile 
The  way  we  piled  it.     And  let's  be  the  talk 
Of  people  brought  to  windows  by  a  light 
Thrown  from  somewhere  against  their  wall-paper. 
Rouse  them  all,  both  the  free  and  not  so  free 
With  saying  what  they'd  like  to  do  to  us 
For  what  they'd  better  wait  till  we  have  done. 
90 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Let's  all  but  bring  to  life  this  old  volcano, 
If  that  is  what  the  mountain  ever  was  — 
And  scare  ourselves.     Let  wild  fire  loose  we  will  .  .  ." 
"And  scare  you  too?"  the  children  said  together. 

"Why  would  n't  it  scare  me  to  have  a  fire 

Begin  in  smudge  with  ropy  smoke  and  know 

That  still,  if  I  repent,  I  may  recall  it, 

But  in  a  moment  not:  a  little  spurt 

Of  burning  fatness,  and  then  nothing  but 

The  fire  itself  can  put  it  out,  and  that 

By  burning  out,  and  before  it  burns  out 

It  will  have  roared  first  and  mixed  sparks  with  stars 

And  sweeping  round  it  with  a  flaming  sword, 

Made  the  dim  trees  stand  back  in  wider  circle  — 

Done  so  much  and  I  know  not  how  much  more 

I  mean  it  shall  not  do  if  I  can  bind  it. 

Well  if  it  does  n't  with  its  draft  bring  on 

A  wind  to  blow  in  earnest  from  some  quarter, 

As  once  it  did  with  me  upon  an  April. 

The  breezes  were  so  spent  with  winter  blowing 

They  seemed  to  fail  the  bluebirds  under  them 

Short  of  the  perch  their  languid  flight  was  toward; 

And  my  flame  made  a  pinnacle  to  heaven 

As  I  walked  once  round  it  in  possession. 

But  the  wind  out  of  doors  —  you  know  the  saying. 

There  came  a  gust.     You  used  to  think  the  trees 

Made  wind  by  fanning  since  you  never  knew 

It  blow  but  that  you  saw  the  trees  in  motion. 

Something  or  someone  watching  made  that  gust. 

It  put  that  flame  tip-down  and  dabbed  the  grass 

Of  over-winter  with  the  least  tip-touch 

91 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Your  tongue  gives  salt  or  sugar  in  your  hand. 
The  place  it  reached  to  blackened  instantly. 
The  black  was  all  there  was  by  day-light, 
That  and  the  merest  curl  of  cigarette  smoke  — 
And  a  flame  slender  as  the  hepaticas, 
Blood-root,  and  violets  so  soon  to  be  now. 
But  the  black  spread  like  black  death  on  the  ground, 
And  I  think  the  sky  darkened  with  a  cloud 
Like  winter  and  evening  coming  on  together. 
There  wer-  enough  things  to  be  thought  of  then. 
Where  the  field  stretches  toward  the  north 
And  setting  sun  to  Hyla  brook,  I  gave  it 
To  flames  without  twice  thinking,  where  it  verges 
Upon  the  road,  to  flames  too,  though  in  fear 
They  might  find  fuel  there,  in  withered  brake, 
Grass  its  full  length,  old  silver  golden-rod, 
And  alder  and  grape  vine  entanglement, 
To  leap  the  dusty  deadline.     For  my  own 
I  took  what  front  there  was  beside.     I  knelt 
And  thrust  hands  in  and  held  my  face  away. 
Fight  such  a  fire  by  rubbing  not  by  beating. 
A  board  is  the  best  weapon  if  you  have  it. 
I  had  my  coat.     And  oh,  I  knew,  I  knew, 
And  said  out  loud,  I  could  n't  bide  the  smother 
And  heat  so  close  in;  but  the  thought  of  all 
The  woods  and  town  on  fire  by  me,  and  all 
The  town  turned  out  to  fight  for  me  —  that  held  me. 
I  trusted  the  brook  barrier,  but  feared 
The  road  would  fail;  and  on  that  side  the  fire 
Died  not  without  a  noise  of  crackling  wood  — 
Of  something  more  than  tinder  grass  or  weed  — 
That  brought  me  to  my  feet  to  hold  it  back 
92 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

By  leaning  back  myself,  as  if  the  reins 

Were  round  my  neck  and  I  was  at  the  plough. 

I  won!     But  I'm  sure  no  one  ever  spread 

Another  color  over  a  tenth  the  space 

That  I  spread  coal  black  over  in  the  time 

It  took  me.     Neighbors  coming  home  from  town 

Could  n't  believe  that  so  much  black  had  come  there 

While  they  had  backs  turned,  that  it  had  n't  been  there 

When  they  had  passed  an  hour  or  so  before 

Going  the  other  way  and  they  not  seen  it. 

They  looked  about  for  someone  to  have  done  it. 

But  there  was  no  one.     I  was  somewhere  wondering 

Where  all  my  weariness  had  gone  and  why 

I  walked  so  light  on  air  in  heavy  shoes 

In  spite  of  a  scorched  Fourth  of  July  feeling. 

Why  should  n't  I  be  scared  remembering  that?" 

"If  it  scares  you,  what  will  it  do  to  us?" 

"Scare  you.     But  if  you  shrink  from  being  scared, 
What  would  you  say  to  war  if  it  should  come? 
That's  what  for  reasons  I  should  like  to  know  — • 
If  you  can  comfort  me  by  any  answer." 

"Oh,  but  war's  not  for  children  —  it's  for  men." 

"Now  we  are  digging  almost  down  to  China. 

My  dears,  my  dears,  you  thought  that  —  we  all  thought  it. 

So  your  mistake  was  ours.     Have  n't  you  heard,  though, 

About  the  ships  where  war  has  found  them  out 

At  sea,  about  the  towns  where  war  has  come 

93 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Through  opening  clouds  at  night  with  droning  speed 
Further  o'erhead  than  all  but  stars  and  angels,  — 
And  children  in  the  ships  and  in  the  towns? 
Have  n't  you  heard  what  we  have  lived  to  learn? 
Nothing  so  new  —  something  we  had  forgotten: 
War  is  for  everyone,  for  children  too. 
I  was  n't  going  to  tell  you,  and  I  must  n't. 
The  best  way  is  to  come  up  hill  with  me 
And  have  our  fire  and  laugh  and  be  afraid." 

The  Seven  Arts  Robert  Frost 


53  Harvest-Moon:  1914 

OVER  the  twilight  field, 
The  overflowing  field,  — 
Over  the  glimmering  field, 
And  bleeding  furrows  with  their  sodden  yield 
Of  sheaves  that  still  did  writhe, 
After  the  scythe; 

The  teeming  field  and  darkly  overstrewn 
With  all  the  garnered  fulness  of  that  noon  — 
Two  looked  upon  each  other. 
One  was  a  Woman  men  had  called  their  mother; 
And  one,  the  Harvest-Moon. 


And  one,  the  Harvest-Moon, 

Who  stood,  who  gazed 

On  those  unquiet  gleanings  where  they  bled; 

Till  the  lone  Woman  said: 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"But  we  were  crazed  .  .  . 

We  should  laugh  now  together,  I  and  you, 

We  two. 

You,  for  your  ever  dreaming  it  was  worth 

A  star's  while  to  look  on  and  light  the  Earth; 

And  I,  forever  telling  to  my  mind, 

Glory  it  was,  and  gladness,  to  give  birth 

To  humankind! 

Yes,  I,  that  ever  thought  it  not  amiss 

To  give  the  breath  to  men, 

For  men  to  slay  again: 

Lorcfing  it  over  anguish  but  to  give 

My  life  that  men  might  live 

For  this. 

You  will  be  laughing  now,  remembering 

I  called  you  once  Dead  World,  and  barren  thing, 

Yes,  so  we  named  you  then, 

You,  far  more  wise 

Than  to  give  life  to  men." 

Over  the  field,  that  there 
Gave  back  the  skies 
A  scattered  upward  stare 
From  blank  white  eyes,  — 
The  furrowed  field  that  lay 
Striving  awhile,  through  many  a  bleeding  dune 
Of  throbbing  clay,  but  dumb  and  quiet  soon, 
She  looked;  and  went  her  way  — 
The  Harvest-Moon. 
The  Boston  Transcript         Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


95 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


54 '  The  Chinese  Nightingale 

A  Song  in  Chinese  Tapestries 
Dedicated  to  S.  T.  F. 

HOW,  how,"  he  said.     "Friend  Chang,"  I  said, 
"San  Francisco  sleeps  as  the  dead  — 
Ended  license,  lust  and  play: 
Why  do  you  iron  the  night  away? 
Your  big  clock  speaks  with  a  deadly  sound, 
With  a  tick  and  a  wail  till  dawn  comes  round. 
While  the  monster  shadows  glower  and  creep, 
What  can  be  better  for  man  than  sleep?" 

"I  will  tell  you  a  secret,"  Chang  replied; 

"My  breast  with  vision  is  satisfied, 

And  I  see  green  trees  and  fluttering  wings, 

And  my  deathless  bird  from  Shanghai  sings." 

Then  he  lit  five  fire-crackers  in  a  pan. 

"Pop,  pop!"  said  the  fire-crackers,  "cra-cra-crack!" 

He  lit  a  joss-stick  long  and  black. 

Then  the  proud  gray  joss  in  the  corner  stirred; 

On  his  wrist  appeared  a  gray  small  bird: 

And  this  was  the  song  of  the  gray  small  bird: 

"Where  is  the  princess,  loved  forever, 
Who  made  Chang  first  of  the  kings  of  men?" 

And  the  joss  in  the  corner  stirred  again; 
And  the  carved  dog,  curled  in  his  arms,  awoke, 
Barked  forth  a  smoke-cloud  that  whirled  and  broke. 
96 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

It  piled  in  a  maze  round  the  ironing-place, 

And  there  on  the  snowy  table  wide 

Stood  a  Chinese  lady  of  high  degree, 

With  a  scornful,  witching,  tea-rose  face  .  .  . 

Yet  she  put  away  all  form  and  pride, 

And  laid  her  glimmering  veil  aside 

With  a  childlike  smile  for  Chang  and  for  me. 

The  walls  fell  back,  night  was  aflower, 

The  table  gleamed  in  a  moonlit  bower, 

While  Chang,  with  a  countenance  carved  of  stone, 

Ironed  and  ironed,  all  alone. 

And  thus  she  sang  to  the  busy  man  Chang: 

"Have  you  forgotten  .  .  . 

Deep  in  the  ages,  long,  long  ago, 

I  was  your  sweetheart,  there  on  the  sand  — 

Storm-worn  beach  of  the  Chinese  land? 

We  sold  our  grain  in  the  peacock  town 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  — 

Built  on  the  edge  of  the  sea-sands  brown  .  .  . 

"When  all  the  world  was  drinking  blood 

From  the  skulls  of  men  and  bulls, 

And  all  the  world  had  swords  and  clubs  of  stone, 

We  drank  our  tea  in  China,  beneath  the  sacred  spice-trees, 

And  heard  the  curled  waves  of  the  harbor  moan. 

And  this  gray  bird,  in  Love's  first  spring, 

With  a  bright  bronze  breast  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Do  you  remember,  ages  after, 

At  last  the  world  we  were  born  to  own  ? 

You  were  the  heir  of  the  yellow  throne  — 

97 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  world  was  the  field  of  the  Chinese  man 
And  we  were  the  pride  of  the  sons  of  Han. 
We  copied  deep  books,  and  we  carved  in  jade, 
And  wove  white  silks  in  the  mulberry  shade."  . 

"I  remember,  I  remember 
That  Spring  came  on  forever, 
That  Spring  came  on  forever." 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

My  heart  was  filled  with  marvel  and  dream 
Though  I  saw  the  western  street-lamps  gleam, 
Though  dawn  was  bringing  the  western  day, 
Though  Chang  was  a  laundryman,  ironing  away 
Mingled  there,  with  the  streets  and  alleys, 
The  railroad-yard,  and  the  clock-tower  bright, 
Demon-clouds  crossed  ancient  valleys; 
Across  wide  lotos-ponds  of  light 
I  marked  a  giants'  firefly's  flight. 

And  the  lady,  rosy-red, 
Opened  her  fan,  closed  her  fan, 
Stretched  her  hand  toward  Chang,  and  said: 
"Do  you  remember, 
Ages  after, 

Our  palace  of  heart-red  stone? 
Do  you  remember 
The  little  doll-faced  children 
With  their  lanterns  full  of  moon-fire, 
That  came  from  all  the  empire 
Honoring  the  throne?  — 
The  loveliest  fete  and  carnival 
Our  world  had  ever  known? 
98 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  sages  sat  about  us 

With  their  heads  bowed  in  their  beards, 

With  proper  meditation  on  the  sight. 

Confucius  was  not  born; 

We  lived  in  those  great  days 

Confucius  later  said  were  lived  aright  .  .  . 

And  this  gray  bird,  on  that  day  of  Spring, 

With  a  bright-bronze  breast,  and  a  bronze-brown  wing, 

Captured  the  world  with  his  carolling. 

Late  at  night  his  tune  was  spent. 

Peasants, 

Sages, 

Children, 

Homeward  went, 

And  then  the  bronze  bird  sang  for  you  and  me. 

We  walked  alone,  our  hearts  were  high  and  free. 

I  had  a  silvery  name,  I  had  a  silvery  name, 

I  had  a  silvery  name  —  do  you  remember 

The  name  you  cried  beside  the  tumbling  sea?" 

Chang  turned  not  to  the  lady  slim  — 
He  bent  to  his  work,  ironing  away; 
But  she  was  arch  and  knowing  and  glowing. 
And  the  bird  on  his  shoulder  spoke  for  him. 

"Darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  .  .  darling  .  . 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

The  great  gray  joss  on  a  rustic  shelf, 

Rakish  and  shrewd,  with  his  collar  awry, 

Sang  impolitely,  as  though  by  himself, 

Drowning  with  his  bellowing  the  nightingale's  cry: 

99 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

'Back  through  a  hundred,  hundred  years 

ear  the  waves  as  they  climb  the  piers, 
Hear  the  howl  of  the  silver  seas, 
Hear  the  thunder! 
Hear  the  gongs  of  holy  China 
How  the  waves  and  tunes  combine 
In  a  rhythmic  clashing  wonder, 
Incantation  old  and  fine: 

'Dragons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons; 

Red  fire-crackers,  and  green  fire-crackers, 

And  dtagons,  dragons,  Chinese  dragons.'" 

Then  the  lady,  rosy-red,  • 

Turned  to  her  lover  Chang  and  said: 

"Dare  you  forget  that  turquoise  dawn 

When  we  stood  on  our  mist-hung  velvet  lawn, 

And  worked  a  spell  this  great  joss  taught 

Till  a  God  of  the  Dragons  was  charmed  and  caught? 

From  the  flag  high  over  our  palace-home 

He  flew  to  our  feet  in  rainbow-foam  — 

A  king  of  beauty  and  tempest  and  thunder 

Panting  to  tear  our  sorrows  asunder, 

We  mounted  the  back  of  that  royal  slave 

With  thoughts  of  desire  that  were  noble  and  grave. 

"We  swam  down  the  shore  to  the  dragon-mountains 
We  whirled  to  the  peaks  and  the  fiery  fountains. 
To  our  secret  ivory  house  we  were  borne. 
We  looked  down  the  wonderful  wing-filled  regions 
Where  the  dragons  darted  in  glimmering  legions. 
Right  by  my  breast  the  nightingale  sang; 

100 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSfe 


The  old  rhymes  rang  in  the  sunlit  mist 

That  we  this  hour  regain  — 

Song-fire  for  the  brain. 

When  my  hands  and  my  hair  and  my  feet  you  kissed, 

When  you  cried  for  your  heart's  new  pain, 

What  was  my  name  in  the  dragon-mist, 

In  the  rings  of  the  rainbowed  rain?" 

"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
"Sorrow  and  love,  glory  and  love," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 

And  now  the  joss  broke  in  with  his  song: 

"Dying  ember,  bird  of  Chang, 

Soul  of  Chang,  do  you  remember?  — 

Ere  you  returned  to  the  shining  harbor 

There  were  pirates  by  ten  thousand 

Descended  on  the  town 

In  vessels  mountain-high  and  red  and  brown, 

Moon-ships  that  climbed  the  storms  and  cut  the  skies. 

On  their  prows  were  painted  terrible  bright  eyes. 

But  I  was  then  a  wizard  and  a  scholar  and  a  priest; 

I  stood  upon  the  sand; 

With  lifted  hand  I  looked  upon  them 

And  sunk  their  vessels  with  my  wizard  eyes, 

And  the  stately  lacquer-gate  made  safe  again. 

Deep,  deep  below  the  bay,  the  sea-weed  and  the  spray, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies, 

Embalmed  in  amber  every  pirate  lies." 

Then  this  did  the  noble  lady  say: 

101 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"  Bird,  do  you  dream  of  our  home-coming  day 
When  you  flew  like  a  courier  on  before 
From  the  dragon-peak  to  our  palace-door, 
And  we  drove  the  steed  in  your  singing  path  — 
The  ramping  dragon  of  laughter  and  wrath; 
And  found  our  city  all  aglow, 
And  knighted  this  joss  that  decked  it  so? 
There  were  golden  fishes  in  the  purple  river 
And  silver  fishes  and  rainbow  fishes. 
There  were  golden  junks  in  the  laughing  river, 
And.  silver  junks  and  rainbow  junks: 
There  were  golden  lilies  by  the  bay  and  river, 
And  silver-lilies  and  tiger-lilies, 
And  tinkling  wind-bells  in  the  gardens  of  the  town 
By  the  black  lacquer-gate 
Where  walked  in  state 
The  kind  king  Chang 
And  his  sweetheart  mate  .  .  . 
With  his  flag-born  dragon 
And  his  crown  of  pearl  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  jade; 
And  his  nightingale  reigning  in  the  mulberry  shade, 
And  sailors  and  soldiers  on  the  sea-sands  brown, 
And  priests  who  bowed  them  down  to  your  song  — 
By  the  city  called  Han,  the  peacock  town, 
By  the  city  called  Han,  the  nightingale  town, 
The  nightingale  town." 
Then  sang  the  bird,  so  strangely  gay, 
Fluttering,  fluttering,  ghostly  and  gray, 
A  vague,  unravelling,  answering  tune, 
Like  a  long  unwinding  silk  cocoon; 
Sang  as  though  for  the  soul  of  him 
Who  ironed  away  in  that  bower  dim: 
102 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"I  have  forgotten 

Your  dragons  great, 
Merry  and  mad  and  friendly  and  bold. 
Dim  is  your  proud  lost  palace-gate. 
I  vaguely  know 
There  were  heroes  of  old, 
Troubles  more  than  the  heart  could  hold, 
There  were  wolves  in  the  woods 
Yet  lambs  in  the  fold, 
Nests  in  the  top  of  the  almond  tree  .  .  . 
The  evergreen  tree  .  .  .  and  the  mulberry  tree 
Life  and  hurry  and  joy  forgotten 
Years  on  years  I  but  half-remember  .  .  . 
Man  is  a  torch,  then  ashes  soon, 
May  and  June,  then  dead  December, 
Dead  December,  then  again  June. 
Who  shall  end  my  dream's  confusion? 
Life  is  a  loom,  weaving  illusion  .  .  . 
I  remember,  I  remember 
There  were  ghostly  veils  and  laces  .  .  . 
In  the  shadowy,  bowery  places  .  .  . 
With  lovers'  ardent  faces 
Bending  to  one  another, 
Speaking  each  his  part. 
They  infinitely  echo 
In  the  red  cave  of  my  heart. 
*  Sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart!' 
They  said  to  one  another. 
They  spoke,  I-  think,  of  perils  past. 
They  spoke,  I  think,  of  peace  at  last. 
One  thing  I  remember: 
Spring  came  on  forever, 

103 


.THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Spring  came  on  forever," 
Said  the  Chinese  nightingale. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Vachel  Lindsay 


55         He  whom  a  Dream  hath  Possessed 

HE  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  mo 
of  doubting, 
For  a  mist  and  the  blowing  of  winds  and  the  mouthing  < 

words  he  scorns; 
Not  the  sinuous  speech  of  schools  he  hears,  but  a  knight 

shouting, 

And  never  comes  darkness  down,  yet  he  greeteth  a  mi 
lion  morns. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more 

roaming; 
All  roads  and  the  flowing  of  waves  and  the  speediest  fligl 

he  knows, 

But  wherever  his  feet  are  s~t,  his  soul  is  forever  homing 
And  going,  he  comes,  and  coming  he  heareth  a  call  ar 

goes. 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth  no  more 

sorrow, 
At  death  and  the  dropping  of  leaves  and  the  fading 

suns  he  smiles, 
For  a  dream  remembers  no  past  and  scorns  the  desire 

a  morrow, 
And  a  dream  in  a  sea  of  doom  sets  surely  the  ultima 

isles. 
104 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  treads  the  impalpable 
marches, 

From  the  dust  of  the  day's  long  road  he  leaps  to  a  laugh 
ing  star, 

And  the  ruin  of  worlds  that  fall  he  views  from  eternal 
arches, 

And  rides  God's  battlefield  in  a  flashing  and  golden  car. 
The  Forum  Shaemas  0  Sheet 


6  The  King  of  Dreams 

SOME  must  delve  when  the  dawn  is  nigh; 
Some  must  moil  when  the  noonday  beams; 
But  when  the  night  comes,  and  soft  winds  sigh, 
Every  man  is  a  King  of  Dreams! 

One  must  plod  while  another  must  ply 
At  plow  or  loom  till  the  sunset  streams, 

But  when  night  comes,  and  the  moon  rides  high, 
Every  man  is  a  King  of  Dreams! 

One  is  slave  to  a  master's  cry, 

Another  serf  to  a  despot  seems, 
But  when  night  comes,  and  the  discords  die, 

Every  man  is  a  King  of  Dreams! 

This  you  may  sell  and  that  may  buy, 

And  this  you  may  barter  for  gold  that  gleams, 
But  there's  one  domain  that  is  fixed  for  aye, — 

Every  man  is  a  King  of  Dreams! 
Lippincott's  Magazine  Clinton  Scollard 

105 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


57  Flammonde 

THE  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows  where, 
With  firm  address  and  foreign  air, 
With  news  of  nations  in  his  talk 
And  something  royal  in  his  walk, 
With  glint  of  iron  in  his  eyes, 
But  never  doubt,  nor  yet  surprise, 
Appeared,  and  stayed,  and  held  his  head 
As  one  by  kings  accredited. 

Erect,  with  his  alert  repose 
About  him,  and  about  his  clothes, 
He  pictured  all  tradition  hears 
Of  what  we  owe  to  fifty  years. 
His  cleansing  heritage  of  taste 
Paraded  neither  want  nor  waste; 
And  what  he  needed  for  his  fee 
To  live,  he  borrowed  graciously. 

He  never  told  us  what  he  was, 
Or  what  mischance,  or  other  cause, 
Had  banished  him  from  better  days 
To  play  the  Prince  of  Castaways. 
Meanwhile  he  played  surpassing  well 
A  part,  for  most,  unplayable; 
In  fine,  one  pauses,  half  afraid 
To  say  for  certain  that  he  played. 

For  that,  one  may  as  well  forego 
Conviction  as  to  yes  or  no; 
106 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Nor  can  I  say  just  how  intense 
Would  then  have  been  the  difference 
To  several,  who,  having  striven 
In  vain  to  get  what  he  was  given, 
Would  see  the  stranger  taken  on 
By  friends  not  easy  to  be  won. 

Moreover,  many  a  malcontent 
He  soothed  and  found  munificent; 
His  courtesy  beguiled  and  foiled 
Suspicion  that  his  years  were  soiled; 
His  mien  distinguished  any  crowd, 
His  credit  strengthened  when  he  bowed; 
And  women,  young  and  old,  were  fond 
Of  looking  at  the  man  Flammonde. 

There  was  a  woman  in  our  town 
On  whom  the  fashion  was  to  frown; 
But  while  our  talk  renewed  the  tinge 
Of  a  long-faded  scarlet  fringe, 
The  man  Flammonde  saw  none  of  that, 
But  what  he  saw  we  wondered  at  — 
That  none  of  us,  in  her  distress, 
Could  hide  or  find  our  littleness. 

There  was  a  boy  that  all  agreed 

Had  shut  within  him  the  rare  seed 

Of  learning.    We  could  understand, 

But  none  of  us  could  lift  a  hand. 

The  man  Flammonde  appraised  the  youth, 

And  told  a  few  of  us  the  truth; 

And  thereby,  for  a  little  gold, 

A  flowered  future  was  unrolled. 


107 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

There  were  two  citizens  who  fought 
For  years  and  years,  and  over  nought; 
They  made  life  awkward  for  their  friends, 
And  shortened  their  own  dividends. 
The  man  Flammonde  said  what  was  wrong 
Should  be  made  right;  nor  was  it  long 
Before  they  were  again  in  line, 
And  had  each  other  in  to  dine. 

And  these  I  mention  are  but  four 
Of  many  out  of  many  more. 
So  much  for  them.    But  what  of  him  — 
So  firm  in  every  look  and  limb? 
What  small  satanic  sort  of  kink 
Was  in  his  brain?    What  broken  link 
Withheld  him  from  the  destinies 
That  came  so  near  to  being  his? 

What  was  he,  when  we  came  to  sift 
His  meaning,  and  to  note  the  drift 
Of  incommunicable  ways 
That  make  us  ponder  while  we  praise? 
Why  was  it  that  his  charm  revealed 
Somehow  the  surface  of  a  shield  ? 
What  was  it  that  we  never  caught? 
What  was  he,  and  what  was  he  not? 

How  much  it  was  of  him  we  met 
We  cannot  ever  know;  nor  yet 
Shall  all  he  gave  us  quite  atone 
For  what  was  his,  and  his  alone; 
108 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Nor  need  we  now,  since  he  knew  best, 
Nourish  an  ethical  unrest: 
Rarely  at  once  will  nature  give 
The  power  to  be  Flammonde  and  live. 

We  cannot  know  how  much  we  learn 
From  those  who  never  will  return, 
Until  a  flash  of  unforeseen 
Remembrance  falls  on  what  has  been. 
We've  each  a  darkening  hill  to  climb; 
And  this  is  why,  from  time  to  time 
In  Tilbury  Town,  we  look  beyond 
Horizons  for  the  man  Flammonde. 
The  Outlook  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


58  Sandy  Star 


SCULPTURED   WORSHIP 

THE  zones  of  warmth  around  his  heart, 
No  alien  airs  had  crossed; 
But  he  awoke  one  morn  to  feel 
The  magic  numbness  of  autumnal  frost. 

His  thoughts  were  a  loose  skein  of  threads, 
And  tangled  emotions,  vague  and  dim; 

And  sacrificing  what  he  loved 
He  lost  the  dearest  part  of  him. 

109 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

In  sculptured  worship  now  he  lives, 
His  one  desire  a  prisoned  ache; 

If  he  can  never  melt  again 

His  very  heart  will  break. 
The  Crisis 


LAUGHING   IT   OUT 

He  had  a  whim,  and  laughed  it  out 

Upon  the  exit  of  a  chance; 
He  floundered  in  a  sea  of  doubt  — 

If  life  was  real  —  or  just  romance. 

Sometimes  upon  his  brow  would  come 

A  little  pucker  of  defiance; 
He  totalled  in  a  word  the  sum 

Of  all  man  made  of  facts  and  science. 

And  then  a  hearty  laugh  would  break, 
A  reassuring  shrug  of  shoulder; 

And  we  would  from  his  fancy  take 

A  faith  in  death  which  made  life  bolder. 

The  Crisis 

in 

EXIT 

No,  his  exit  by  the  gate 

Will  not  leave  the  wind  ajar; 

He  will  go  when  it  is  late 
With  a  misty  star. 

One  will  call,  he  cannot  see; 

One  will  call,  he  will  not  hear; 
iio 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  will  take  no  company, 
Nor  a  hope  or  fear. 

We  shall  smile  who  loved  him  so  — 
They  who  gave  him  hate  will  weep; 

But  for  us  the  winds  will  blow 

Pulsing  through  his  sleep. 
The  Forum 

IV 
THE    WAY 

He  could  not  tell  the  way  he  came, 

Because  his  chart  was  lost: 
Yet  all  his  way  was  paved  with  flame 

From  the  bourne  he  crossed. 

He  did  not  know  the  way  to  go, 

Because  he  had  no  map: 
He  followed  where  the  winds  blow,  — 

And  the  April  sap. 

He  never  knew  upon  his  brow 

The  secret  that  he  bore,  — 
And  laughs  away  the  mystery  now 

The  dark's  at  his  door. 
Scribner's  Magazine 


ONUS    PROBANDI 

No  more  from  out  the  sunset, 

No  more  across  the  foam, 
No  more  across  the  windy  hills 

Will  Sandy  Star  come  home. 

in 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

He  went  away  to  search  it 
With  a  curse  upon  his  tongue: 

And  in  his  hand  the  staff  of  life, 
Made  music  as  it  swung. 

I  wonder  if  he  found  it, 

And  knows  the  mystery  now  — 

Our  Sandy  Star  who  went  away, 
With  the  secret  on  his  brow. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly         William  Stanley  Braithzuaite 


59  Saint  John  of  Nepomuc 

LAST  summer  I  Columbused  John,  in   Prague,  that 
deadly  Bush  League  town  — 

I'd  quit  'em  cold  on  pictures  and  cathedrals  for  awhile. 
I  hung  around  for  Ma  and  Sis  (Good  Lord,  there  was  n't 

one  they'd  miss  — 

Pale  martyrs  till  you  could  n't  sleep,  Madonnas  by  the 
mile!) 

I  read  some  dope  in  Baedeker  about  a  tablet  on  the  bridge, 
And  how  they  slipped  this  poor  old  scout  the  double  cross 

for  fair. 
I'm  off  high-brow  historic  truck,   but   Father  John   of 

Nepomuc, 
You  must  admit  he  was  the  goods.     Believe  me,  he  was 

there! 

The  king  was  Wenzel  Number  Four.    John  was  sky-pilot 
for  the  court. 

112 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

King  gets  a  hunch  that  Mrs.  King  has  something  on  her 

mind. 
He  goes  to  sleuthing  more  and  more.     He  says,  "Gad- 

zooks!     I  '11  have  their  gore!" 
(Don't  ever  let  'em  string  you  on  that  bunk  that  love  is 

blind!) 

The  queen  —  I'll  bet  she  was  some  queen  —  she  tangoes 

blithely  on  her  way. 
She  fails  to  see  the  storm  clouds  on  her  regal  husband's 

dome. 
I  got  him  guessed,  that  Wenzel  guy  harpoons  a  girl  that's 

young  and  spry, 
And  tries  to  seal  her  up  for  life  in  the  Old  People's  Home! 

The  way  I  had  it  figured  out  she  married  him  to  please 

her  folks: 
"Our  son-in-law,  the  Kink,  you  know!"     (Some  speed! 

I  guess  that's  poor?) 
So,  when  she  sights  a  Maiden's  Dream  —  some  real  live 

wire  that's  made  the  team, 
Well,  she  sits  up  and  notices,  like  any  girl.    Why,  sure! 

Old  Wenzel  can't  quite  cinch  the  case,  but  what  he  does  n't 
know,  he  thinks. 

The  lump  he  calls  a  heart  congeals  beneath  his  fancy  vest. 

He  sends  for  poor  old  Father  John  and  says  as  follows:  — 
"I  am  on! 

I  merely  lack  a  few  details!  What  hath  the  queen  con 
fessed?" 

He  holds  the  court  upon  the  bridge.  "Speak  up,"  he 
says,  "  or  otherwise 

113 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

These  spears  shall  thrust  you  down  to  death!     Come 

through!     I  am  the  king! 
Kick  in!     What  did  my  spouse  confess?'*     The  queen 

sends  frantic  S.  O.  S.  .  .  . 
Maybe  I  sort  of  dozed,  but  well  —  here's  how  I  got  this 

thing  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  startled  courtiers,  straining  their  ears; 
He  saw  the  white  queen  swaying,  striving  to  stand; 
He  saw  the  soldiers  tensely  gripping  their  spears, 
Waiting  the  king's  command: 
He  heard  a  small  page  drawing  a  sobbing  breath; 
He  heard  a  bird's  call,  poignant  and  sweet  and  low; 
He  heard  the  rush  of  the  river,  spelling  death, 
Mocking  him,  down  below. 

But  he  only  said,  "My  liege, 

To  my  honor  you  lay  siege, 

And  that  fortress  you  can  never  overthrow."     . 

He  thought  of  how  he  had  led  them,  all  the  years; 

He   thought   of  how   he   had    served    them,   death   and 

birth; 

He  thought  of  healing  their  hates,  stilling  their  fears  .  .  . 
Humbly,  he  weighed  his  worth. 
He  knew  he  was  leaving  them,  far  from  the  goal; 
He  knew,  with  deep  a  joy,  it  was  safe  .  .  .  and  wise. 
He  knew  that  now  the  pale  queen's  pitiful  soul 
Would  awake,  and  arise. 

And  he  only  said,  "My  king, 

Every  argument  you  bring 

Merely  sets  my  duty  forth  in  sterner  guise." 
114 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  felt  the  spears'  points,  merciless,  thrust  him  down; 

He  felt  the  exquisite,  fierce  glory  of  pain; 

He  felt  the  bright  waves  eager,  reaching  to  drown, 

Engulf  him,  body  and  brain. 

He  sensed  cries,  faint  and  clamorous,  far  behind; 

He  sensed  cool  peace,  and  the  buoyant  arms  of  love; 

He  sensed  like  a  beacon,  clear,  beckoning,  kind, 

Five  stars,  floating  above  .  .  . 

To  the  ones  who  watched  it  seemed 

That  he  slept  .  .  .  and  smiled  .  .  .  and  dreamed. 

"And  the  waters  were  abated  .  .  .  and  the  dove." 

And  there  I  was  on  that  old  bridge  —  boob  freshman  me, 

on  that  same  bridge! 
The  lazy  river  hummed  and  purred,  and  sang  a  sleepy 

song. 
Of  course,  I  know  it  listens  queer,  but,  gad,  it  was  so  real 

and  near, 
I  stood  there  basking  in  the  sun  for  goodness  knows  how 

long- 
Sometimes  I  see  it  even  now.     I  see  that  little,  lean  old 

saint 
Put  up  against  the  shining  spears  his  simple  nerve  and 

pluck: 
And  once,  by  Jove,  you  know,  he  came  right  down  beside 

me  in  -the  game  .  .  . 
We  know  who  made  the  touchdown  then,  old  John  of 

Nepomuc! 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse      Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


60  Samson  Allen 

THERE  was  the  drum  he  played  so  poorly, 
Though  all  his  days  he  prayed  for  skill. 
Never  in  life  would  he  beat  it  surely, 
Even  if  the  stars  in  heaven  stood  still. 

There  was  the  village  band  renewing 
Always  his  ancient  ache  to  play. 

It  was  the  sum  of  his  soul's  undoing, 
And  never  he  knew  would  it  wear  away. 

Little  the  village  found  amusing, 

With  no  more  than  one  straggling  street, 

So  that  without  so  much  as  choosing 
It  turned  to  him  as  its  jest  complete. 

Thus  in  a  humor  quite  bucolic 

It  clutched  at  him  as  its  lawful  prey; 

Would  it  not  add  to  the  county's  frolic 
If  he  should  lead  the  band  that  day? 

Mindful  he  of  the  vain,  balked  playing 
Could  not  take  such  a  crown  to  wear; 

But  he  would  were  there  no  gainsaying 
Beat  the  drum  for  the  county  fair. 

With  the  event  well  worth  the  coming  — 

All  the  village  was  there  to  laugh  — 
No  matter  if  the  clouds  urged  homing, 

Should  not  rain  write  his  epitaph? 
116 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Here  they  come  with  piccoli  shrilling, 

He,  head  high,  with  the  raised  sticks  dumb  — 

Now  the  silence  that  will  break  thrilling 
In  the  crash  of  the  rolling  drum. 

All  the  years  of  his  patient  failing 

Shrouded  are  by  a  blinding  light, 
For  none  sees,  since  they  all  are  quailing, 

Just  how  the  lightning  made  wrong  right! 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America  Donald  Evans 


61  Gayheart 

A  Story  of  Defeat 


GAYHEART  came  in  June,  I  saw  his  heels 
Go  through  the  door,  and  broken  heels  they  were. 
His  eyes  were  big,  and  blue,  and  young.    He  said, 
"Could  you  direct  me  to  the  Basement,  Sir?" 

I  knew  the  Basement;  I  had  grubbed  there  once 

Before  a  client  tumbled  in  my  net 
And  brought  me  riches.    It  was  coffin-cold 

And  on  its  bare  walls  seeped  a  moldy  sweat. 

'T  was  next  the  kitchen,  too,  and  had  the  breath 
Of  cheap  things  cooking  —  but  I  led  him  down. 

The  stairs  dropped  naked  through  the  clammy  dark  — 
He  paused,  and  gasped,  as  men  do  when  they  drown. 

117 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"Is  it  down  there?"    I  turned  and  took  his  arm 
(Thin  as  a  boy's  it  was;  all  skin  and  bone); 

I  said:  "The  dark  is  just  a  pleasant  cloak 
To  veil  you  off",  and  keep  your  thoughts  alone. 

"A  Boarding-House  is  all-inquisitive; 

You're  safer  here."    "How  did  you  know,"  he  said, 
"That  I  would  want  to  be  alone?    Am  I 

An  open  book  to  be  so  simply  read?" 

We  stumbled  down  until  I  felt  the  door 

Beneath  my  fingers.    Then  I  struck  a  light  — 

The  room  grinned  at  us  like  an  ugly  face 

Caught  in  a  heart-beat  from  the  cloak  of  night. 

The  boy's  breath  cracked  his  lips.    I  saw  his  soul 
Stand  in  his  eyes,  and  look,  and  shrink  again, 

Sick  with  the  moment's  shattered  visionings, 
And  on  his  face  went  the  slow  feet  of  pain. 

"It  strikes  you  bleak,  eh?    Come,  it's  not  so  bad. 

The  gas  won't  whimper  if  you  turn  it  low. 
The  bed  is  lame,  but  friendly.    Here's  a  desk 

To  scribble  at."    He  said:  "I  write,  you  know. 

"I've  come  to  be  a  writer."  And  he  smiled, 
As  boys  do  when  they  say  their  heart's  desire; 

"I'm  from  the  South  —  a  paper  took  me  on, 
But  that's  just  keeping  fagots  in  my  fire." 

He  smiled  again,  for  he  had  all  his  youth 

To  smile  from.    "My  real  work,"  he  said,  "will  be 

To  sketch  the  city  —  not  in  prosy  books, 
But  in  its  native,  living  poetry. 
118 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Cities  were  made  for  measures  and  for  rhyme, 

They  have  an  ancient  minstrelsy  of  feet, 
And  rivers  sweep  their  shipping  like  a  song, 

And  there  is  endless  music  in  a  street. 

"Endless,  I  say,  and  never  caught  by  man. 

Your  books?     Ah,  how  they  walk,  walk,  walk,  with 

words; 
But  verse  runs  on  light  feet,  as  Cities  do  — 

O  God,  I've  dreamed  it  till  it  hurts  like  swords 

"Not  to  be  writing;  but  I've  got  to  learn, 

Learn,  learn  it  all  —  the  streets,  the  parks,  the  ships, 

The  subway  and  the  skyscrapers!"    He  stopped 
And  brushed  his  hand  across  his  trembling  lips. 

"Excuse  me,  sir.    You  were  the  first  kind  soul 
I'd  spoken  to  —  the  rest  are  like  the  tomb." 

He  smiled  and  touched  my  hand;  and  then  I  turned, 
Leaving  him  standing  in  his  wistful  room. 


June  passed,  and  weather  came  that  seared  our  flesh. 

The  soft  streets  crawled;  old  men  dropped  down  and 

died; 
Within  the  House  our  summer  tempers  snarled, 

And  every  night  the  lady  boarder  cried. 

Her  alcove  shouldered  mine  —  and  so  I  knew. 

She  came  at  six,  her  feet  as  slow  as  lead 
Dragged  through  her  door,  and  cried  till  supper-time. 

I  never  saw  her  but  her  eyes  were  red. 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Poor  Gayheart  whitened  slowly,  till  his  face 

Was  like  the  paper  that  he  scribbled  on. 
But  he  had  youth,  and  some  vague  bravery 

That  held  him  taut  until  his  task  was  done. 

He  rasped  our  nerves,  though,  with  his  restless  ways, 
His  restless,  silent  ways.  .  .  .  He  never  seemed 

To  see  us  when  we  passed  him  in  the  hall  — 

His  eyes  were  distant  with  the  thing  he  dreamed. 

He  bolted  dinner  like  a  dog,  as  though 

He  feared  his  fate  would  snatch  him  unaware 

With  all  his  dreams  unproved  —  then,  starting  up, 
Would  grope  the  shadowed  hallway  to  the  stair, 

And  down  to  his  eternal  folderol, 

His  spitting  gaslight  and  his  scratching  pen, 

Until  we  cursed  him  for  his  industry, 

His  being  different  from  the  ruck  of  men. 

Then  one  dead  night  when  all  the  stars  did  sweat 

He  plucked  my  sleeve,  and  smiled,  and  drew  me  down 

His  damned  black  stairs.     Then,  while  the  clogged  jet 

whined, 
He  read  me  what  he'd  written  of  the  Town. 

It  struck  me  wonderful.    It  had  the  ache 

Of  rush-hour  traffic  in  it,  and  the  swing 
Of  wheels,  as  though  he'd  listened  in  a  street, 

A  crowded  street  where  life  ran  thundering.  .  .  . 

It  made  me  think  of  going  to  my  work; 

Of  men  in  crowds,  and  women's  faces  drawn 
With  painted  lines,  and  shops  and  ships  and  spires 

And  skyscrapers  that  reached  up  for  the  dawn. 
120 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  then  beneath  the  step  of  rhyme  I  heard 
The  boy's  soul  speaking.  .  .  .  And  I  knew  that  he 

Had  spent  himself  like  dust  among  the  crowd 
To  catch  the  heart-beat  for  his  poetry. 

His  voice  went  out  like  flame.    I  found  myself 

Shocked  by  the  still,  small  room.    To  me  it  seemed 

Great  throngs  had  passed  with  various  noise.    He  said: 
"That's  just  the  gateway  to  the  thing  I've  dreamed!" 


HI 

There  is  a  street's  end,  where  the  coasters  sleep, 
And  there,  at  twilight,  purple  waters  run, 

And  o'er  their  breast  the  crimson-coated  day 
Trails  the  last  silver  of  the  fallen  sun. 

A  wall  is  there,  for  men  to  dream  upon; 

And  so  young  Gayheart  went,  with  all  his  scars 
Unhealed  .  .  .  and  saw  the  lights  sown  through  the  dusk, 

And  his  tall  city  in  a  cloak  of  stars. 

Tier  upon  tier  the  golden  windows  burned, 

As  though  men  sought  new  freedom  in  the  skies; 

And  somehow,  lured  by  starlight  and  by  dawn, 
Built  his  blind  cities  up  to  paradise! 

Afar  the  bridges  spun  their  silver  webs, 

The  mellow  whistles  talked  along  the  stream; 

But  Gayheart  leaned  athirst  upon  a  stone, 
Hurt  with  the  shining  beauty  of  his  dream. 

121 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  he  was  like  a  child  with  wistfulness, 

Holding  his  hands  out  through  the  summer  night, 

Where  in  the  dusk  the  great,  clean  towers  flared, 
Like  swords  thrust  up  in  some  red  battle-light! 

And  then  he  turned,  all  dumb  with  his  desire, 

And  stumbled  through  still  streets,  until  he  found 

The  great  bridge  trembling  underfoot  and  heard 
The  trains  go  by  him  with  a  tempest  sound. 

Black,  shapeless  forms  came  shrieking  with  bright  eyes; 

The  sea-wind  rolled  like  drums  against  his  ears, 
And  he  was  singing,  singing  as  he  trod, 

And  in  his  eyes  were  sudden,  smarting  tears. 

The  tallest  spire  enraptured  him!    He  strode 

Under  the  roofed  bridge,  where  the  newsboys  cry, 

And  out  into  that  little  breathing-space 
From  whence  the  windows  go  into  the  sky. 

And  there  he  sought  a  bench  and  sat  him  down, 
Between  two  snoring  vagabonds,  who  lay 

Sprawled  on  their  faces,  .  .  .  but  his  wakefulness 
Was  like  a  lamp  within  him  till  the  day. 

What  did  it  mean?  the  stone  flung  like  a  song? 

The  desk-light  brothering  the  star?    The  whole 
Up-sweep  of  roofs  that  is  our  native-land  — 

What  meaning  had  it,  and  what  secret  soul? 

He  sat  with  upturned  eyes,  as  young  men  do, 
Until  the  lamp  upon  his  face  grew  wan; 

He  saw  his  nation  toiling  in  its  House, 

Its  tall,  strange  House  that  reached  up  for  the  dawn! 
122 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  dreaming,  saw  the  Elder  Worlds  asleep 
In  their  low  houses,  beautiful  with  Time.  .  .  . 

The  vagrant  at  his  left  side  groaned  and  breathed, 
Lifting  a  face  of  cumulative  grime  — 

"What's  in  yer  gizzard,  lad,  that  twists  ye  so? 

I  know!    You're  one  of  them  wot's  got  a  brain! 
Now  me — "    His  brother  raised  a  blowzy  head: 

"Aw,  hell!"  he  snarled,  and  fell  asleep  again. 

• 

Across  the  roofs  the  first,  faint  gold  of  dawn 

Streaked  the  dun  heavens,  and  the  Day  Men  took 

The  windows  of  the  sleepless,  so  that  life 
Went  smoothly  like  a  never-written  book. 

And  Gayheart  shook  the  cramps  from  his  dull  limbs, 
Rose  and  went  up  the  paper's  curling  stair 

Until  he  reached  the  City  Room.    The  Staff, 
Half  stripped  of  cloth,  already  sweated  there. 

But  he  dropped  at  his  crazy,  limping  desk, 
In  the  dim  corner  where  the  cubs  are  kept, 

And  wrote:  "America  is  zuakefulness!" 
And  fell  face  upon  the  words,  and  slept. 

IV 

Gayheart's  book  came  back,  and  back  again, 
And  still  he  mailed  it  out,  with  little  lies 

To  cloak  its  failure  —  but  I  think  we  saw 
The  naked,  frightened  soul  behind  his  eyes. 

123 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  lady  boarder  knew.    I  heard  her  say 

A  cruel  thing:  "Your  book  is  home,"  she  said, 

"For  Sunday  dinner."    But  he  passed  her  by 
Without  the  slightest  turning  of  his  head. 

She  hated  him.  .  .  .  And  so  mid-autumn  fell, 
With  no  abating  coolness.    Each  new  sun 

Was  like  a  murderer-let  out  of  locks, 

And  life  went  sickly,  praying  to  be  done. 

A  night  fell  when  all  sleep  was  vain.  ...  I  rose 
And  stumbled  to  the  windowful  of  stars, 

That  was  my  share  of  heaven.  .  .  .  There  I  stood 
Letting  the  soft  night  seep  into  my  scars. 

The  window  opened  on  a  little  court, 

And  suddenly  a  feeble  thrust  of  flame 
Stabbed  like  a  pettish  dagger  through  the  dark, 

Out  of  the  night  a  ragged  breathing  came. 

...  I  saw  the  Basement  boarder  stooping  down, 
His  lean  face  bloodied  with  the  touch  of  light. 

A  tongue  of  fire  licked  his  hands  .  .  .  and  died, 
Brief  as  the  flutter  of  a  star  in  flight. 

Somehow  I  sensed  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  The  gloom 
Was  like  a  grave,  the  light  leaped  up  no  more. 

I  turned  and  groped  down  through  the  breathless  house; 
Until  I  saw  him  crouching  by  his  door. 

He  stood  there,  staring  at  his  empty  hands 

As  though  they'd  done  his  dearest  dream  to  death; 

The  palms  were  soiled  and  smeared  with  paper  ash; 
There  was  a  reek  of  whisky  on  his  breath. 
124 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"What's  this?"  I  said.    He  raised  his  head  and  smiled 
With  a  deep  drunkenness  that  touched  his  soul. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is!    I've  been  a  fool  — 
The  sort  of  fool  that  makes  a  dream  his  goal. 

"I've  worked  my  heart  out;  done  a  decent  thing  — 
And  no  one  wants  it!    No  one  wants  to  look 

Beneath  the  surface  of  this  world  of  ours. 

It's  all  damned  artifice.  .  .  .  I've  burned  my  book." 

Even  to  me  the  thing  seemed  tragical  — 
As  though  he'd  set  a  torch  to  half  himself. 

"What!"  I  cried,  "burned  your  splendid  poetry? 
Laid  yourself  out  like  that  upon  a  shelf? 

"What  will  you  do?"    "I'll  do  as  other  men; 

Harness  my  talent  as  a  modern  should. 
I'll  do  the  obvious  with  all  my  age  — 

The  cheap,  the  counterfeit,  the  understood! 

"I've  a  new  job  this  night;  a  fine,  new  job  — 

He  spat  into  the  shadows  of  the  place  — 
"Verse-making  on  a  magazine!    The  sort 

That  wears  a  painted  simper  on  its  face. 

"I'm  rich  .  .  .  and  drunk.    I  had  to  drink  or  scream, 
And  drink  goes  deep  with  me;  .  .   .  get  me  to  bed. 

I've  slaughter  on  my  soul  —  and  verse  to  make. 
My  editor  wants  —  something  light  —  he  said  — 

"Something  that 's  brisk  and  —  funny!"    There  he  stood, 
With  those  raw,  suffering  eyes  and  stared  at  me, 

Until  I  near  cried  out.    He  was  so  white! 
And  older  .  .  .  older  than  a  man  should  be. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  swear  whole  ages  crumbled  in  his  face, 

For  he  had  dreamed,  and  dreams  are  ancient  things, 
Bearing  a  harsher  reckoning  than  Time 

When  once  despair  has  crumbled  up  their  wings. 

I  got  him  stripped  and  into  bed  at  last, 
The  poor,  spent  lad!    He  lay  there  still  and  stark, 

His  smudged  hands  clenched  across  his  shallow  chest, 
And  moaned  once  as  I  crept  out  through  the  dark. 

Success  came  to  him  swiftly;  made  him  drunk. 

He  gulped  life  as  a  drunkard  gulps  his  bowl, 
Forgetting  all  his  splendid  futile  dreams  — 

He  was  an  altered  person  to  his  soul. 

He  fattened  and  grew  flushed;  he  learned  to  sneer; 

His  verses  ran  like  swift,  malignant  flame, 
Smirching  the  thing  they  touched  and  burning  on 

To  wipe  the  pathway  for  his  striding  fame. 

He  left  the  Basement  then;  soared  up  two  flights 
With  braggart  wings,  bought  furniture  and  prints, 

Nonsense,  we  called  it!  —  and  to  crown  the  show 
Decked  out  his  trappings  in  a  flowered  chintz. 

But  that  phase  passed.    His  true  self's  tide  flowed  back, 
We  saw  him  drowning  in  his  own  strange  deeps; 

A  crawling  restlessness  crept  from  his  eyes, 
The  sort  of  serpent  thing  that  never  sleeps. 

A  month  or  two  he  clung  to  his  gay  nest, 
Beat  his  wings  breathlessly  within  a  shell, 

Made  himself  live  with  all  his  flaunted  things, 
Grim  as  a  tortured  convict  in  a  cell. 
126 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  then  his  self's  self  conquered.  .  .  .  One  May  night 
When  earth  was  breathing  fragrance  to  its  core, 

And  open  windows  drank  the  breath  of  Spring, 
He  came  and  stood  within  my  open  door. 

"Please,"  he  said,  "would  you  mind?"  .   .   .  And  there 
he  stopped, 

Sucking  his  cheeks  in  like  a  timid  boy. 
"I've  gone  back  to  the  Basement.  ...  I've  gone  back! 

The  other  room  made  life  seem  just  a  toy. 

"And  that's  not  right.  .  .  .  There's  something  more  to 
life 

Than  turning  it  to  playthings.  .  .  .  I've  gone  back, 
To  find  my  book  again,  to  do  the  work 

I'd  planned  to  do  according  to  my  knack." 

"Your  book,"  I  said,  "your  book?    You  burned  it,  boy!" 
He  flinched.    "I  know.    I  feel  its  ashes  still 

Here  on  my  hands.    That's  what  I  want  of  you  — 
I  know  that  you  can  help  me  if  you  will." 

His  tone  was  light,  and  yet  I  heard  him  breathe 

As  men  do  in  the  ache  and  grip  of  strife. 
I  rose  and  went  with  him.    Again  he  said, 

"There's  something  more  than  toys  to  make  of  life." 

The  Basement,  with  its  yellow  tooth  of  light, 

Grinned  at  us  like  a  long-familiar  face, 
Whose  daily  wont  of  ugliness,  revealed, 

Mounts  to  a  sin  within  the  moment's  space. 

127 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Its  gaping  door  still  breathed  the  winter's  chill, 

Its  single  window  level  with  the  street 
Flickered  with  fragments  of  the  passing  world, 

Hummed  with  a  whispered  drudgery  of  feet. 

And  yet  to  him  its  very  barrenness 

Was  like  a  savage  penance.    Standing  there 

He  bruised  himself  upon  its  ugliness 

Until  the  sweat  stood  out  beneath  his  hair. 

"I  asked  you  down,"  he  said,  "to  help  me  think, 
To  help  remember."    Once  again  the  sweat 

Stood  out  on  him,  and  as  I  looked  I  knew 
It  was  his  soul  had  made  his  body  wet. 

He  gripped  me  with  the  hunger  of  his  eyes, 
Hard  as  a  knife  his  glance  was,  hard  as  steel. 

"How  did  it  go?  —  My  book?    I've  thought  and  thought 
Until  my  brain  is  like  a  going  wheel." 

I  stared  at  him  in  sudden  choking  pain. 

"Boy!"   I  said.     "For  my  life—"     He  cried,  "You 

must! 
It's  all  behind  a  door  inside  your  mind; 

It's  there,  if  you  will  brush  aside  the  dust! 

"My  own  mind's  locked  against  me.    Now  and  then 
A  line  comes  back,  a  bare  crumb  at  the  most. 

My  plan,  my  meaning  —  all  the  soul  within 
Peers  with  faded  features  of  a  ghost." 

"It  was  the  Town,"  I  said,  "in  all  its  guise. 

The  Town!    It  was  the  crowds  along  the  street; 
Faces  and  spires  and  stately  shipo  and  dreams, 

Desires,  and  winnings,  and  I  think  —  defeat." 
128 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Defeat,"  he  gasped,  "defeat!"    And  then  he  dropped 
Down  at  his  palsied  desk  and  bowed  his  head 

Upon  his  arms.  ...  I  felt  my  flesh  grow  cold 
As  though  that  gesture  meant  a  man  struck  dead. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  from  the  prison  of  his  arms, 

"What  god  would  wreck  a  man  with  one  mistake? 

Give  him  two  selves  and  to  each  self  a  sword 
So  he's  half  slain  or  ever  he's  awake!" 

He  raised  his  haggard  face.  "In  every  man 
There  is  division  of  the  dust  and  dream, 

And  Youth  is  just  the  crossing  of  the  swords 
Before  he  takes  his  place  within  the  scheme. 

"The  Town's  a  citadel  for  all  things  flesh, 
And  yet  a  man  might  storm  it  with  a  song, 

Played  he  not  traitor  to  himself ...  I  quit, 
And  oh,  it  was  the  quitting  that  was  wrong! 

"I  was  so  lonely  for  a  thing  to  love, 

A  single  look,  a  passing  word  of  praise  — 

I  was  as  near  to  triumph  as  a  smile, 
And  now  defeat,  defeat  for  all  my  days! 

"Cities  are  cruel  things,"  he  whispered  then, 

"Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat." 

In  at  the  window  came  a  thrust  of  wind, 
E earing  the  weary  music  of  the  street  .  .  . 

He  leaped  up  with  an  oath,  snapped  off  the  light, 
An  instant,  unforgetable,  there  gleamed 

His  white  face.  .  .  .  Then  a  whisper  through  the  dark, 
"I  would  to  God  that  I  had  never  dreamed." 


129 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  years  go  slowly  in  a  boarding-house, 

Sharpened  with  neither  passions  nor  despairs;         . 

Time  seems  to  falter  in  those  dim,  gray  halls  — 
The  days  are  only  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 

The  Basement  yawned  for  tenants,  but  none  came; 

It  seemed  completer  for  its  emptiness. 
Gayheart  had  been  its  last  ...  To  me  the  room_ 

Still  wore  the  mantle  of  his  soul's  distress. 

I  never  saw  his  face  but  once  again; 

It  was  a  sharp  cold  midnight  in  the  fall; 
Broadway  lay  flaming  like  a  polished  sword, 

As  though  one  night  were  given  to  flame  its  all. 

The  theaters,  bright-mouthed,  poured  forth  a  stream 
Of  pallid  faces  that  the  glare  struck  dead. 

The  street  crawled,  and  the  noise  went  up  to  God 
In  formless  cries,  like  some  great  need  unsaid. 

The  buffet  of  false  brightness  swept  the  night 

With  rosy  blushes  to  the  firmament. 
Here  ran  the  riot  of  a  hoarded  world, 

Here  life  was  only  reckoned  to  be  spent! 

And  here,  carved  in  that  graceless  art  of  fire, 

Stood  Gayheart's  name,  a  star's  height  o'er  the  street. 

His  words  came  back  to  me  as  clear  as  bells, 

"  Their  slaves  are  Failure,  and  their  gods  Defeat!" 

Was  this  defeat,  then?    Was  his  fame  defeat? 

I  knew  the  sort  of  comic  thing  he'd  done. 
Had  he  forgot  those  ashes  on  his  hands? 

Had  he  by  hard  forgetting  played  and  won? 

130 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  him  in  the  crowd, 
Beneath  that  scarlet  flaunting  of  his  name. 

A  smooth,  smug  mask  of  flesh  was  on  him  now; 
He  was  the  very  creature  of  his  fame. 

His  boyishness  had  died.  .  .  .  His  hard,  clean  youth 
Was  gone  forever  'neath  a  whelm  of  clay. 

Yet  as  I  looked  I  saw  him  lift  his  head, 
And  all  his  grossness  seemed  to  fall  away. 

His  hungry  look  went  straight  to  Heaven's  throne, 

High  up  into  the  folded  book  of  stars, 
And  on  his  face  I  saw  the  Quest  again  — 

He  was  the  seeker,  fainting  with  his  scars! 

One  glimpse  and  he  was  gone,  ...  a  soul  blown  on 
And  lost  at  last  beneath  those  painted  skies. 

Yet  he  still  lives!    There  never  dawns  a  day 
But  I  behold  him  in  the  City's  eyes. 
The  North  American  Review  Dana  Burnet 


62  The  Unconquered  Air 


OTHERS  endure  Man's  rule:  he  therefore  deems 
I  shall  endure  it  —  I,  the  unconquered  Air! 
Imagines  this  triumphant  strength  may  bear 
His  paltry  sway!  yea,  ignorantly  dreams, 
Because  proud  Rhea  now  his  vassal  seems, 
And  Neptune  him  obeys  in  billowy  lair, 
That  he  a  more  sublime  assault  may  dare, 
Where  blown  by  tempest  wild  the  vulture  screams! 

131 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Presumptuous,  he  mounts:  I  toss  his  bones 
Back  from  the  height  supernal  he  has  braved: 

Ay,  as  his  vessel  nears  my  perilous  zones, 

I  blow  the  cockle-shell  away  like  chaff, 
And  give  him  to  the  Sea  he  has  enslaved. 

He  founders  in  its  depths;  and  then  I  laugh! 

II 
Impregnable  I  held  myself,  secure 

Against  intrusion.     Who  can  measure  Man? 

How  should  I  guess  his  mortal  will  outran 
Defeat  so  far  that  danger  could  allure 
For  its  own  sake?  —  that  he  would  all  endure, 

All  sacrifice,  all  suffer,  rather  than 

Forego  the  daring  dreams  Olympian 
That  prophesy  to  him  of  victory  sure? 

Ah,  tameless  courage!  —  dominating  power 
That,  all  attempting,  in  a  deathless  hour 

Made  earth-born  Titans  godlike,  in  revoltl  — 
Fear  is  the  fire  that  melts  Icarian  wings: 
Who  fears  nor  Fate,  nor  Time,  nor  what  Time  brings, 

May  drive  Apollo's  steeds,  or  wield  the  thunderbolt! 
Harper's  Magazine  Florence  Earle  Coates 


63  A  Likeness 

Portrait  Bust  of  an  Unknown,  Capitol,  Rome 
N  every  line  a  supple  beauty  — 


I 


The  restless  head  a  little  bent  — 
Disgust  of  pleasure,  scorn  of  duty, 
The  unseeing  eyes  of  discontent. 
132 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

I  often  come  to  sit  beside  him, 

This  youth  who  passed  and  left  no  trace 
Of  good  or  ill  that  did  betide  him, 

Save  the  disdain  upon  his  face. 

The  hope  of  all  his  House,  the  brother 

Adored,  the  golden-hearted  son, 
Whom  Fortune  pampered  like  a  mother; 

And  then  —  a  shadow  on  the  sun. 
Whether  he  followed  Caesar's  trumpet, 

Or  chanced  the  riskier  game  at  home 
To  find  how  favor  played  the  strumpet 

In  fickle  politics  at  Rome; 

Whether  he  dreamed  a  dream  in  Asia 

He  never  could  forget  by  day, 
Or  gave  his  youth  to  some  Aspasia, 

Or  gamed  his  heritage  away; 
Once  lost,  across  the  Empire's  border 

This  man  would  seek  his  peace  in  vain; 
His  look  arraigns  a  social  order 

Somehow  entrammelled  with  his  pain. 

"The  dice  of  gods  are  always  loaded"; 

One  gambler,  arrogant  as  they, 
Fierce,  and  by  fierce  injustice  goaded, 

Left  both  his  hazard  and  the  play. 
Incapable  of  compromises, 

Unable  to  forgive  or  spare, 
The  strange  awarding  of  the  prizes 

He  had  no  fortitude  to  bear. 


133 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Tricked  by  the  forms  of  things  material  — 

The  solid-seeming  arch  and  stone, 
The  noise  of  war,  the  pomp  imperial, 

The  heights  and  depths  about  a  throne  — 
He  missed,  among  the  shapes  diurnal, 

The  old,  deep-travelled  road  from  pain, 
The  thoughts  of  men  which  are  eternal, 

In  which,  eternal,  men  remain. 

Ritratto  d'ignoto;  defying 

Things  unsubstantial  as  a  dream  — 
An  Empire,  long  in  ashes  lying  — 

His  face  still  set  against  the  stream. 
Yes,  so  he  looked,  that  gifted  brother 

I  loved,  who  passed  and  left  no  trace, 
Not  even  —  luckier  than  this  other  — 

His  sorrow  in  a  marble  face. 
Scribner's  Magazine  Willa  Sibert  Gather 


64     On  a  Copy  of  Keats'  "Endymion" 

HAS  not  the  glamoured  season  come  once  more, 
When  earth  puts  on  her  arras  of  soft  green  ? 
See  where  along  the  meadow  rillet's  shore 
The  wild-rose  buds  unfold! 

Eastward  the  boughs  with  murmurous  laughter  lean 
To  warn  themselves  in  morning's  generous  gold. 
The  foxgloves  nod  along  the  English  lanes 

That  saw  erewhile  the  dancing  sprites  of  snow; 
Night-long  the  leaf-hid  nightingale  complains 
With  such  melodious  woe 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

That  Sleep,  enamored  of  her  soaring  strains, 
Is  widely  wakeful  as  the  dim  hours  go. 

Ope  but  the  page  —  and  hark,  the  impassioned  bird 
That  through  the  hush  of  the  be-shadowed  hours 

Pours  in  the  ear  of  dark  its  melting  word! 

Here  is  as  mellow  song 
As  ever  welled  from  pleached  laurel  bowers, 
Or  e'er  was  borne  soft  orient  winds  along; 

Here  may  one  list  all  ecstasies  they  sung, 
The  shepherds  and  the  maids  of  Arcady, 
Flower-garlanded  what  time  the  world  was  young;  — 
Pandean  minstrelsy, 

Low  flutings  from  slim  pipes  of  silver  tongue 
Played  by  the  dryads  on  some  upland  lea. 

And  blent  writh  these  are  heavenly  whisperings 
As  fa|nt  as  whitening  poplars  make  at  dawn, 
Sublime  suggestions  of  fine-fingered  strings 

Touched  in  celestial  air, 
And  earthward  through  the  dulling  ether  drawn,^ 

Yet  falling  on  us  more  than  earthly  fair; 
The  voice  divine  that  young  Endymion  knew 

In  the  cool  woodland's  darkmost  depths  by  night, 
When  godlike  ardors  thrilled  him  through  and  through; 

And  his  voice  from  the  height 
Whither,  on  wakening,  drenched  with  chilly  d^ew, 
He  sought  the  goddess  in  the  gathering  light. 

But  ah,  what  mournful  memories  are  mine, 
Song-wakened  at  this  lavish  summer-tide! 
Can  I  forget  that  sombre  cypress  line 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

By  old  Rome's  ruined  wall, 
The  lonely  grave  that  alien  grasses  hide, 
And  the  pathetic  silence  shrouding  all? 
Who  would  forget?    Blest  be  the  song  that  bears 

My  soul  across  aerial  seas  of  space 
As  wingedly  as  airy  fancy  fares! 

For  now  that  earth's  worn  face 
The  radiant  glow  of  life's  renewal  wears, 

Would  I  in  reverence  seek  that  sacred  place. 

There  would  I  lay  these  woven  shreds  of  rhyme 
In  lieu  of  scattered  heart's-ease  and  the  rose. 
Behold  how  Song  has  triumphed  over  Time, 
For  still  his  song  rings  clear, 
Though  where  the  tender  Roman  violet  grows 
Deep  has  he  slumbered  many  a  fateful  year! 
If  to  the  poet's  rapt  imaginings 

Beauty  be  wed,  with  love  of  purpose  high, 
Despite  the  cynic  and  his  scornful  flings 

Song  shall  not  fail  and  die, 
But  like  the  bird  that  up  the  azure  springs 

Still  thrill  the  heart,  still  fill  the  listening  sky! 
The  North  American  Review  Clinton  Scollard 


65  Silence 

I  HAVE  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of  the  sea, 
And  the  silence  of  the  city  when  it  pauses, 
And  the  silence  of  a  man  and  a  maid, 
Arid  the  silence  for  which  music  alone  finds  the  word, 
136 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  ths  silence  of  the  woods  before  the  winds  of  spring 

begin, 

And  the  silence  of  the  sick 
When  their  eyes  roam  about  the  room. 
And  I  ask:  For  the  depths 
Of  what  use  is  language? 
A  beast  of  the  fields  moans  a  few  times 
When  death  takes  its  young. 

And  we  are  voiceless  in  the  presence  of  realities  — 
We  cannot  speak. 

A  curious  boy  asks  an  old  soldier 
Sitting  in  front  of  the  grocery  store, 
"How  did  you  lose  your  leg?" 
And  the  old  soldier  is  struck  with  silence, 
Or  his  mind  flies  away 

Because  he  cannot  concentrate  it  on  Gettysburg, 
It  comes  back  jocosely 
And  he  says,  "A  bear  bit  it  off." 
And  the  boy  wonders,  while  the  old  soldier 
Dumbly,  feebly  lives  over 
The  flashes  of  guns,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 
The  shrieks  of  the  slain, 
And  himself  lying  on  the  ground, 
And  the  hospital  surgeons,  the  knives, 
And  the  long  days  in  bed. 
But  if  he  could  describe  it  all 
He  would  be  an  artist. 

But  if  he  were  an  artist  there  would  be  deeper  wounds 
Which  he  could  not  describe. 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  great  hatred, 
And  the  silence  of  a  great  love, 

137 


THE  GOLDEN  .TREASURY 

And  the  silence  of  a  deep  peace  of  mind, 

And  the  silence  of  an  embittered  friendship, 

There  is  the  silence  of  a  spiritual  crisis, 

Through  which  your  soul,  exquisitely  tortured, 

Comes  with  visions  not  to  be  uttered 

Into  a  realm  of  higher  life. 

And  the  silence  of  the  gods  who  understand  each  other 

without  speech, 
There  is  the  silence  of  defeat. 
There  is  the  silence  of  those  unjustly  punished; 
And  the  silence  of  the  dying  whose  hand 
Suddenly  grips  yours. 

There  is  the  silence  between  father  and  son, 
When  the  father  cannot  explain  his  life, 
Even  though  he  be  misunderstood  for  it. 

There  is  the  silence  that  comes  between  husband  and 

wife. 

There  is  the  silence  of  those  who  have  failed; 
And  the  vast  silence  that  covers 
Broken  nations  and  vanquished  leaders. 
There  is  the  silence  of  Lincoln, 
Thinking  of  the  poverty  of  his  youth. 
And  the  silence  of  Napoleon 
After  Waterloo. 

And  the  silence  of  Jeanne  d'Arc 
Saying  amid  the  flames,  "Blessed  Jesus" 
Revealing  in  two  words  all  sorrow,  all  hope. 
And  there  is  the  silence  of  age, 
Too  full  of  wisdom  for  the  tongue  to  utter  it 
In  words  intelligible  to  those  who  have  not  lived 
The  great  range  of  life. 
138 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  there  is  the  silence  of  the  dead. 
If  we  who  are  in  life  cannot  speak 
Of  profound  experiences, 
Why  do  you  marvel  that  the  dead 
Do  not  tell  you  of  death? 
Their  silence  shall  be  interpreted 
As  we  approach  them. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse     Edgar  Lee  Masters 


66  Miracles 


TWILIGHT  is  spacious,  near  things  in  it  seem  far, 
And  distant  things  seem  near. 
Now  in  the  green  west  hangs  a  yellow  star. 
And  now  across  old  waters  you  may  hear 
The  profound  gloom  of  bells  among  still  trees, 
Like  a  rolling  of  huge  boulders  beneath  seas. 

Silent  as  though  in  evening  contemplation 
Weaves  the  bat  under  the  gathering  stars. 
Silent  as  dew  we  seek  new  incarnation, 
Meditate  new  avatars. 
In  a  clear  dusk  like  this 
Mary  climbed  up  the  hill  to  seek  her  son, 
To  lower  him  down  from  the  cross,  and  kiss 
The  mauve  wounds,  every  one. 

Men  with  wings 

In  the  dusk  walked  softly  after  her. 
She  did  not  see  them,  but  may  have  felt 
The  winnowed  air  around  her  stir. 

139 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

She  did  not  see  them,  but  may  have  known 
Why  her  son's  body  was  light  as  a  little  stone. 
She  may  have  guessed  that  other  hands  were  there 
Moving  the  watchful  air. 

Now,  unless  persuaded  by  searching  music 

Which  suddenly  opens  the  portals  of  the  mind, 

We  guess  no  angels, 

And  are  content  to  be  blind. 

Let  us  blow  silver  horns  in  the  twilight. 

And  lift  our  hearts  to  the  yellow  star  in  the  green, 

To  find,  perhaps,  if  while  the  dew  is  rising, 

Clear  things  may  not  be  seen. 


Under  a  tree  I  sit,  and  cross  my  knees, 

And  smoke  a  cigarette. 

You  nod  to  me:  you  think  perhaps  you  know  me. 

But  I  escape  you,  I  am  none  of  these; 

I  leave  my  name  behind  me,  I  forget  .  .  . 

I  hear  a  fountain  shattering  into  a  pool; 

I  see  the  gold  fish  slanting  under  the  cool; 

And  suddenly  all  is  frozen  into  silence. 

And  among  the  firs,  or  over  desert  grass, 

Or  out  of  a  cloud  of  dust,  or  out  of  darkness, 

Or  on  the  first  slow  patter  of  sultry  rain, 

I  hear  a  voice  cry  "Marvels  have  come  to  pass,  — 

The  like  of  which  shall  not  be  seen  again!" 

And  behold,  across  a  sea  one  came  to  us, 
Treading  the  wave's  edge  with  his  naked  feet, 
Slowly,  as  one  might  walk  in  a  ploughed  field. 
140 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

We  stood  where  the  soft  waves  on  the  shingle  beat, 
In  a  blowing  mist,  and  pressed  together  in  terror, 
And  marvelled  that  all  our  eyes  might  share  one  error. 

For  if  the  fishes'  fine-spun  net  must  sink, 

Or  pebbles  flung  by  a  boy,  or  the  thin  sand, 

How  shall  we  understand 

That  flesh  and  blood  might  tread  on  the  sea  water 

And  foam  not  wet  the  ankles?     We  must  think 

That  all  we  know  is  lost,  or  only  a  dream, 

That  dreams  are  real,  and  real  things  only  dream. 

And  if  a  man  may  walk  to  us  like  this 

On  the  unstable  sea,  as  on  a  beach, 

With  his  head  bowed  in  thought  — 

Then  we  have  been  deceived  in  what  men  teach; 

And  all  our  knowledge  has  come  to  nought; 

And  a  little  flame  should  seek  the  earth, 

And  leaves,  falling,  should  seek  the  sky, 

And  surely  we  should  enter  the  womb  for  birth, 

And  sing  from  the  ashes  when  we  die. 

Or  was  the  man  a  god,  perhaps,  or  devil? 
They  say  he  healed  the  sick  by  stroke  of  hands; 
And  that  he  gave  the  sights  of  the  earth  to  the  blind. 
And  I  have  heard  that  he  could  touch  a  fig-tree, 
And  say  to  it,  "Be  withered!"  and  it  would  shrink 
Like  a  cursed  thing,  and  writhe  its  leaves,  and  die. 
How  shall  we  understand  such  things,  I  wonder, 
Unless  there  are  things  invisible  to  the  eye? 

And  there  was  Lazarus,  raised  from  the  dead: 
To  whom  he  spoke,  quietly,  in  the  dusk,  — 
Lazarus,  three  days  dead,  and  mortified; 

141 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  the  pale  body  trembled;  as  from  a  swoon, 
Sweating,  the  sleeper  woke,  and  raised  his  head; 
And  turned  his  puzzled  eyes  from  side  to  side  .  .  . 

Should  we  not,  then,  hear  voices  in  a  stone, 

Whispering  softly  of  heaven  and  hell? 

Or  if  one  walked  beside  a  sea,  alone, 

Hear  broodings  of  a  bell?  .  .  . 

Or  on  a  green  hill  in  the  evening's  fire, 

If  we  should  stand  and  listen  to  poplar  trees, 

Should  we  not  hear  the  lit  leaves  suddenly  choir 

A  jargon  of  silver  music  against  the  sky?  .  .  . 

Or  the  dew  sing,  or  dust  profoundly  cry?  .  .  . 

If  this  is.  possible,  then  all  things  are: 

And  I  may  leave  my  body  crumpled  there 

Like  an  old  garment  on  the  floor; 

To  walk  abroad  on  the  unbetraying  air; 

To  pass  through  every  door, 

And  see  the  hills  of  the  earth,  or  climb  a  stair. 

Wound  me  with  spears,  you  only  stab  the  wind; 
You  nail  my  cloak  against  a  bitter  tree; 
You  do  not  injure  me. 

I  pass  through  the  crowd,  the  dark  crowd   busy  with 

murder, 

Through  the  linked  arms  I  pass; 
And  slowly  descend  the  hill  through  dew-wet  grass. 

in 

Twilight  is  spacious,  near  things  in  it  seem  far, 
And  distant  things  seem  near. 
Now  in  the  green  west  hangs  a  yellow  star; 
And  now  across  old  waters  you  may  hear 
142 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  profound  gloom  of  bells  among  still  trees, 
Like  a  rolling  of  huge  boulders  beneath  seas. 

Peter  said  that  Christ,  though  crucified, 

Had  not  died; 

But  that  escaping  from  his  cerements, 

In  human  flesh,  with  mortal  sense, 

Amazed  at  such  an  ending, 

He  fled  alone,  and  hid  in  Galilee, 

And  lived  in  secret,  spending 

His  days  and  nights,  perplexed,  in  contemplation: 

And  did  not  know  if  this  were  surely  he. 

Did  Peter  tell  me  this?     Or  was  I  Peter? 

Or  did  I  listen  to  a  tavern-story? 

Green  leaves  thrust  out  and  fall.     It  was  long  ago. 

Dust  has  been  heaped  upon  us.  ...  We  have  perished. 

We  clamor  again.     And  again  we  are  dust  and  blow. 

Well,  let  us  take  the  music,  and  drift  with  it 

Into  the  darkness.  ...  It  is  exquisite. 

The  Poetry  Journal  Conrad  Aiken 


67  Ash  Wednesday 

(After  hearing  a  lecture  on  the  origins  of  religion) 

HERE  in  the  lonely  chapel  I  will  wait, 
Here  will  I  rest,  if  any  rest  may  be; 
So  fair  the  day  is,  and  the  hour  so  late, 
I  shall  have  few  to  share  the  blessed  calm  with  me. 
Calm  and  soft  light,  sweet  inarticulate  calls! 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

One  shallow  dish  of  eerie  golden  fire 

By  molten  chains  above  the  altar  swinging, 

Draws  my  eyes  up  from  the  shadowed  stalls 

To  the  warm  chancel-dome; 

Crag-like  the  clustered  organs  loom, 

Yet  from  their  thunder-threatening  choir 

Flows  but  a  ghostly  singing  — 

Half-human  voices  reaching  home 

In  infinite,  tremulous  surge  and  falls. 

Light  on  his  stops  and  keys, 

And  pallor  on  the  player's  face, 

Who,  listening  rapt,  with  finger-skill  to  seize 

The  pattern  of  a  mood's  elusive  grace, 

Captures  his  spirit  in  an  airy  lace 

Of  fading,  fading  harmonies. 

Oh,  let  your  coolness  soothe 

My  weariness,  frail  music,  where  you  keep 

Tryst  with  the  even-fall; 

Where  tone  by  tone  you  find  a  pathway  smooth 

To  yonder  gleaming  cross,  or  nearer  creep 

Along  the  bronzed  wall, 

Where  shade  by  shade  thro'  deeps  of  brown 

Comes  the  still  twilight  down. 

Wilt  thou  not  rest,  my  thought? 
Wouldst  thou  go  back  to  that  pain-breeding  room 
Whence  only  by  strong  wrenchings  thou  wert  brought? 
O  weary,  weary  questionings, 
Will  ye  pursue  me  to  the  altar  rail 
Where  my  old  faith  for  sanctuary  clings, 
And  back  again  my  heart  reluctant  hale 
Yonder,  where  crushed  against  the  cheerless  wall 
144 


.OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Tiptoe  I  glimpsed  the  tier  on  tier 

Of  faces  unserene  and  startled  eyes  — 

Such  eyes  as  on  grim  surgeon-work  are  set, 

On  desperate  outmaneuverings  of  doom? 

Still  must  I  hear 

The  boding  voice  with  cautious  rise  and  fall 

Tracking  relentless  to  its  lair 

Each  fever-bred  progenitor  of  faith, 

Each  fugitive  ancestral  fear? 

Still  must  I  follow,  as  the  wraith 

Of  antique  awe  toward  a  wreck-making  beach 

Drives  derelict? 

Nay,  rest,  rest,  my  thought, 

Where  long-loved  sound  and  shadow  teach 

Quietness  to  conscience  overwrought. 

Harken!    The  choristers,  the  white-robed  priest 

Move  thro'  the  chapel  dim 

Sounding  of  warfare  and  the  victor's  palm, 

Of  valiant  marchings,  of  the  feast 

Spread  for  the  pilgrim  in  a  haven'd  calm. 

How  on  the  first  lips  of  my  steadfast  race 

Sounded  that  battle  hymn, 

Quaint  heaven-vauntings,  with  God's  gauntlet  flung, 

To  me  bequeathed,  from  age  to  age, 

My  challenge  and  my  heritage! 

"The  Lord  is  in  His  holy  place" 

How  in  their  ears  the  herald  voice  has  rung! 

Now  will  I  make  bright  their  sword, 

Will  pilgrim  in  their  ancient  path, 

Will  haunt  the  temple  of  their  Lord; 

Truth  that  is  neither  variable  nor  hath 

H5 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Shadow  of  turning,  I  will  find 

In  the  wise  ploddings  of  their  faithful  mind; 

Of  finding  not,  as  in  this  frustrate  hour 

By  question  hounded,  waylaid  by  despair, 

Yet  in  these  uses  shall  I  know  His  power 

As  the  warm  flesh  by  breathing  knows  the  air. 

0  futile  comfort!    My  faith-hungry  heart 
Still  in  your  sweetness  tastes  a  poisonous  sour; 
Far  off,  far  off  I  quiver  'neath  the  smart 

Of  old  indignities  and  obscure  scorn 

Indelibly  on  man's  proud  spirit  laid, 

That  now  in  time's  ironic  masquerade 

Minister  healing  to  the  hurt  and  worn! 

What  are  those  streams  that  from  the  altar  pour 

Where  goat  and  ox  and  human  captive  bled 

To  feed  the  blood-lust  of  the  murderous  priest? 

1  cannot  see  where  Christ's  dear  love  is  shed, 
So  deep  the  insatiate  horror  washes  red 
Flesh-stains  and  frenzy-sears  and  gore. 

Beneath  that  Cross,  whereon  His  hands  outspread, 
What  forest  shades  behold  what  shameful  rites 
Of  maidenhood  surrendered  to  the  beast 
In  obscene  worship  on  midsummer  nights! 
What  imperturbable  disguise 
Enwraps  these  organs  with  a  chaste  restraint 
To  chant  innocuous  hymns  and  litanies 
For  sinner  and  adoring  saint, 
Which  yet  inherit  like  an  old  blood-taint 
Some  naked  caperings  in  the  godliest  tune,  — 
Goat-songs  and  jests  strong  with  the  breath  of  Pan, 
That  charmed  the  easy  cow-girl  and  her  man 
146 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

In  uncouth  tryst  beneath  a  scandalous  moon! 

Ah,  could  I  harken  with  their  trust, 

Or  see  with  their  pure-seeing  eyes 

Who  of  the  frame  of  these  dear  mysteries 

Were  not  too  wise ! 

Why  cannot  I,  as  in  a  stronger  hour, 

Outface  the  horror  that  defeats  me  now? 

Have  I  not  reaped  complacent  the  rich  power 

That  harvest  from  this  praise  and  bowing  low? 

On  this  strong  music  have  I  mounted  up, 

At  yonder  rail  broke  bread,  and  shared  the  holy  cup, 

And  on  that  cross  have  hung,  and  felt  God's  pain 

Sorrowing,  sorrowing,  till  the  world  shall  end. 

Not  from  these  forms  my  questionings  come 

That  serving  truth  are  purified, 

But  from  the  truth  itself,  the  way,  the  goal, 

One  challenge  vast  that  strikes  faith  dumb  — 

If  truth  be  fickle,  who  shall  be  our  guide? 

"Truth  that  is  neither  variable,  nor  hath 

Shadow  of  turning?"    Ah,  where  turns  she  not! 

Where  yesterday  she  stood, 

Now  the  horizon  empties  —  lo,  her  steps 

Where  yonder  scholar  woos,  are  hardly  cold, 

Yet  shall  he  find  her  never,  but  the  thought 

Mantling  within  him  like  her  blood 

Shall  from  his  eloquence  fade,  and  leave  his  words 

Flavor 'd  with  vacant  quaintness  for  his  son. 

What  crafty  patience,  scholar,  hast  thou  used, 

Useless  ere  it  was  begun  — 

What  headless  waste  of  wing, 

Beating  vainly  round  and  round! 

147 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

In  no  one  Babel  were  the  tongues  confused, 

But  they  who  handle  truth,  from  sound  to  sound 

Master  another  speech  continuously. 

Deaf  to  familiar  words,  our  callous  ear 

Will  quiver  to  the  edge  of  utterance  strange; 

When  truth  to  God's  truth-weary  sight  draws  near, 

Cannot  God  see  her  till  she  suffer  change? 

Must  ye  then  change,  my  vanished  youth, 

Home  customs  of  my  dreams? 

Change  and  farewell! 

Farewell,  your  lost  phantasmic  truth 

That  will  not  constant  dwell, 

But  flees  the  passion  of  our  eyes 

And  leaves  no  hint  behind  her 

Whence  she  dawns  or  whither  dies, 

Or  if  she  live  at  all,  or  only  for  a  moment  seems. 

Here  tho'  I  only  dream  I  find  her, 

Here  will  I  watch  the  twilight  darken. 

Yonder  the  scholar's  voice  spins  on 

Mesh  upon  mesh  of  loveless  fate; 

Here  will  I  rest  while  truth  deserts  him  still. 

What  hath  she  left  thee,  Brother,  but  thy  voice? 

After  her,  have  thy  will, 

And  happy  be  thy  choice! 

Here  rather  will  I  rest,  and  harken 

Voices  longer  dead  but  longer  loved  than  thine. 

Yet  still  my  most  of  peace  is  more  unrest, 
As  one  who  plods  a  summer  road 
Feels  the  coolness  his  own  motion  stirs, 
But  when  he  stops  the  dead  heat  smothers  him. 
Here  in  this  calm  my  soul  is  weariest, 
148 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Each  question  with  malicious  goad 

Pressing  the  choice  that  still  my  soul  defers 

To  visioned  hours  not  thus  eclipsed  and  dim, 

Lest  in  my  haste  I  deem 

That  truth's  invariable  part 

Is  her  eluding  of  man's  heart. 

Farewell,  calm  priest  who  pacest  slow 

After  the  stalwart-marching  choir! 

Have  men  thro'  thee  taught  God  their  dear  desire? 

Hath  God  thro'  thee  absolved  sin? 

What  is  thy  benediction,  if  I  go 

Sore  perplexed  and  wrought  within? 

Open  the  chapel  doors,  and  let 

Boisterous  music  play  us  out 

Toward  the  flaring  molten  west 

Whither  the  nerve-racked  day  is  set; 

Let  the  loud  world,  flooding  back, 

Gulf  us  in  its  hungry  rout; 

Rest?    What  part  have  we  in  rest? 

Boy  with  the  happy  face  and  hurrying  feet, 
Who  with  thy  friendly  cap's  salute 
Sendest  bright  hail  across  the  college  street, 
If  thou  couldst  see  my  answering  lips,  how  mute, 
How  loth  to  take  thy  student  courtesy! 
What  truth  have  I  for  thee? 
Rather  thy  wisdom,  lad,  impart, 
Share  thy  gift  of  strength  with  me. 

Still  with  the  past  I  wrestle,  but  the  future  girds  thy  heart. 
Clutter  of  shriveled  yesterdays  that  clothe  us  like  a  shell, 
Thy  spirit  sloughs  their  bondage  off,  to  walk  newborn  and 
free. 

149 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

All  things  the  human  heart  hath  learned  —  God,  heaven, 

earth,  and  hell  — 
Thou  weighest  not  for  what  they  were,  but  what  they 

still  may  be. 
Whether   the    scholar   delve    and    mine    for   faith-wreck 

buried  deep, 
Or  the  priest  his  rules  and  holy  rites,  letter  and  spirit, 

keep, 
Toil  or  trust  in  breathless  dust,  they  shall  starve  at  last 

for  truth; 
Scholar  and  priest  shall  live  from  thee,  who  art  eternal 

youth. 

Holier  if  thou  dost  tread  it,  every  path  the  prophets  trod; 
Clearer  where  thou  dost  worship,  rise  the  ancient  hymns 

to  God; 

Not  by  the  priest  but  by  thy  prayers  are  altars  sanctified; 
Strong  with  new  love  where  thou  dost  kneel,  the  cross 

whereon  Christ  died. 
The  Yale  Review  John  Erskine 


68  To  a  Logician 

/^OLD  man,  in  whom  no  animating  ray 

V_>  Warms  the  chill  substance  of  the  sculptor's  clay; 

Grim  Reasoner,  with  problems  in  your  eyes, 

Professor,  Sage  —  however  do  they  call  you? 

Far-seeing  Blindman,  fame  shall  yet  befall  you; 

Carve  you  in  stone  —  that  Winter  of  the  wise!  — 

And  set  you  up  in  some  pale  portico 

To  frown  on  heaven  above,  on  earth  below. 

150 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

I  shall  make  songs,  and  give  them  to  the  breeze, 

And  die  amid  a  thousand  ecstasies! 

I  shall  be  dust,  and  feel  the  joyous  sting 

Of  that  sweet  arrow  from  the  bow  of  Time 

Which  men  call  Spring. 

And  out  of  my  dead  mouth  a  rose  shall  come  like  rhyme! 

But  you,  in  your  eternal  state  of  snows, 

Shall  thrill  no  more  to  life's  resurgent  flood, 

Nor  cast  death's  laughter  into  April's  rose! 

You  shall  be  marble,  who  were  never  blood. 

Harper's  Magazine  Dana  Burnet 


69  The  Clerk 

TWO  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 
That  is  all  that  he  can  say  where  he  sits  in  Heaven; 
"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 
Through  the  long  celestial  day. 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 

Once  he  used  to  sing  it  down  the  halls  of  Heaven; 

"Work  is  hard  but  there's  an  answer, 

Far  ahead  great  things  are  waiting, 

I  will  add  the  magic  Figures, 

I  will  seek  the  gleaming  Balance  — 

I  will  win  the  Master's  praise." 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 

Not  so  careful  now  in  the  place  of  Heaven; 

"Work  is  good  but  there  is  pleasure, 

I  am  young  with  time  before  me  — 

O  bright  angel,  from  the  shops  of  Heaven, 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Dance  awhile,  the  Harper  's  playing  — 
Drink  the  rainbow  wine  with  me!" 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 

Then  he  only  droned  it  on  his  stool  in  Heaven; 

"Work  is  bread  and  bread  is  living, 

Little  mouths  grow  very  hungry 

In  the  rooms  of  Paradise  — 

She  must  wear  a  golden  feather 

When  she  walks  along  the  sky." 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 

Just  a  whisper  now  through  the  walls  of  Heaven; 

"O  I  can  not  find  the  error, 

Can  not  strike  the  gleaming  Balance  — 

All  the  magic  's  out  of  Figures, 

All  the  wonder  out  of  loving, 

And  the  Master  has  no  praise." 

"Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are  seven"  — 
Still  he  mutters  on  at  the  books  of  Heaven  — 
"Work  is  bread  and  bread  is  living"  — 
Through  the  long  celestial  day. 

Contemporary  Verse  Scudder  Middleton 


70  A  Dog 

),  back  again? 


—  And  is  your  errand  done, 
Unfailing  one? 

How  quick  the  gray  world,  at  your  morning  look. 
Turns  wonder-book! 
152 


.  OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Come  in,  —  O  guard  and  guest. 

Come,  0  you  breathless  from  a  life-long  quest;  — 

Search  here  my  heart;  and  if  a  comfort  be, 

Ah,  comfort  me! 

You  eloquent  one,  you  best 

Of  all  diviners,  so  to  trace 

The  weather-gleams  upon  a  face; 

With  wordless,  querying  paw, 

Adventuring  the  law! 

You  shaggy  Loveliness, 

What  call  was  it?  —  \Vhat  dream  beyond  a  guess, 

Lured  you,  gray  ages  back, 

From  that  lone  bivouac 

Of  the  wild  pack?- 

Was  it  your  need?  —  Or  ours,  the  calling  trail 

Of  faith  that  should  not  fail?  - 

Of  hope  dim  understood?  - 

That  you  should  follow  our  poor  humanhood, 

Only  because  you  would ! 

To  search  and  circle,  —  follow  and  outstrip, 

Men  and  their  fellowship; 

And  keep  your  heart  no  less, 

Your  back-and-forth  of  hope  and  wistfulness, 

Through  all  world-weathers  and  against  all  odds! 

Can  you  forgive  us,  now,  — 

Your  fallen  gods? 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America 


153 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


71  The  Night  Court 

CALL  Rose  Costara!" 
Insolent,  she  comes. 

The  watchers,  practised,  keen,  turn  down  their  thumbs. 
The  walk,  the  talk,  the  face,  —  that  sea-shell  tint,  — 
It  is  old  stuff;  they  read  her  like  coarse  print. 
Here  is  no  hapless  innocence  waylaid. 
This  is  a  stolid  worker  at  her  trade. 
Listening,  she  yawns;  half  smiling,  undismayed, 
Shrugging  a  little  at  the  law's  delay, 
Bored  and  impatient  to  be  on  her  way. 
It  is  her  eighth  conviction.     Out  beyond  the  rail 
A  lady  novelist  in  search  of  types  turns  pale. 
She  meant  to  write  of  them  just  as  she  found  them, 
And  with  no  tears  or  maudlin  glamour  round  them, 
In  forceful,  virile  words,  harsh,  true  words,  without  shame, 
Calling  an  ugly  thing,  boldly,  an  ugly  name; 
Sympathy,  velvet  glove,  on  purpose,  iron  hand. 
But  eighth  conviction!    All  the  phrases  she  had  planned 
Fail;  "sullen,"  "vengeful,"  no,  she  is  n't  that. 
No,  the  pink  face  beneath  the  hectic  hat 
Gives  back  her  own  aghast  and  sickened  stare 
With  a  detached  and  rather  cheerful  air, 
And  then  the  little  novelist  sees  red. 
From  her  chaste  heart  all  clemency  is  fled. 
"Oh,  loathsome!  venomous!     Off  with  her  head! 
Call  Rose  Costara!"     But  before  you  stop, 
And  shelve  your  decent  rage, 

Let's  call  the  cop. 

IS4 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Let's  call  the  plain-clothes  cop  who  brought  her  in. 
The  weary-eyed  night  watchman  of  the  law, 
A  shuffling  person  with  a  hanging  jaw, 
Loose-lipped  and  sallow,  rather  vague  of  chin, 
Comes  rubber-heeling  at  his  Honor's  rap. 
He  set  and  baited  and  then  sprung  the  trap  — 
The  trap  —  by  his  unsavory  report. 
Let's  ask  him  why  —  but  first 

Let's  call  the  court. 


Not  only  the  grim  figure  in  the  chair, 

Sphinx-like  above  the  waste  and  wreckage  there, 

Skeptical,  weary  of  a  retold  tale, 

But  the  whole  humming  hive,  the  false,  the  frail,  — 

An  old  young  woman  with  a  weasel  face, 

A  lying  witness  waiting  in  his  place, 

Two  ferret  lawyers  nosing  out  a  case, 

Reporters  questioning  a  Mexican, 

Sobbing  her  silly  heart  out  for  her  man, 

Planning  to  feature  her,  "lone  desperate,  pretty,"  — 

Yes,  call  the  court.     But  wait! 

Let's  call  the  city. 

Call  the  community!     Call  up,  call  down, 
Call  all  the  speeding,  mad,  unheeding  town! 
Call  rags  and  tags  and  then  call  velvet  gown! 
Go,  summon  them  from  tenements  and  clubs, 
On  office  floors  and  over  steaming  tubs! 
Shout  to  the  boxes  and  behind  the  scenes, 
Then  to  the  push-carts  and  the  limousines! 
Arouse  the  lecture-room,  the  cabaret! 

155 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Confound  them  with  a  trumpet-blast  and  say, 
"Are  you  so  dull,  so  deaf  and  blind  indeed, 
That  you  mistake  the  harvest  for  the  seed?" 
Condemn  them  for  —  but  stay! 

Let's  call  the  code — 

That  facile  thing  they've  fashioned  to  their  mode: 
Smug  sophistries  that  smother  and  befool, 
That  numb  and  stupefy;  that  clumsy  thing 
That  measures  mountains  with  a  three-foot  rule, 
And  plumbs  the  ocean  with  a  pudding-string  — 
The  little,  brittle  code.     Here  is  the  root, 
Far  out  of  sight,  and  buried  safe  and  deep, 
And  Rose  Costara  is  the  bitter  fruit. 
On  every  limb  and  leaf,  death,  ruin,  creep. 

So,  lady  novelist,  go  home  again. 

Rub  biting  acid  on  your  little  pen. 

Look  back  and  out  and  up  and  in,  and  then 

Write  that  it  is  no  job  for  pruning-shears. 

Tell  them  to  dig  for  years  and  years  and  years 

The  twined  and  twisted  roots.     Blot  out  the  page; 

Invert  the  blundering  order  of  the  age; 

Reverse  the  scheme:  the  last  shall  be  the  first. 

Summon  the  system,  starting  with  the  worst  — 

The  lying,  dying  code!     On,  down  the  line, 

The  city  and  the  court,  the  cop.     Assign 

The  guilt,  the  blame,  the  shame!     Sting,  lash,  and  spur! 

Call  each  and  all!     Call  us!     And  then  call  her! 

The  Century  Magazine  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 


156 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

72      Guns  as  Keys :  and  the  Great  Gate 

Swings 

PART   I 

DUE  East,  far  West.  Distant  as  the  nests  of  the 
opposite  winds.  Removed  as  fire  and  water  are, 
as  the  clouds  and  the  roots  of  the  hills,  as  the  wills  of 
youth  and  age.  Let  the  key-guns  be  mounted,  make  a 
brave  show  of  waging  war,  and  pry  off  the  lid  of  Pan 
dora's  box  once  more.  Get  in  at  any  cost  and  let  out  at 
little,  so  it  seems,  but  wait  —  wait  —  there  is  much  to 
follow  through  the  Great  Gate! 

They  do  not  see  things  in  quite  that  way,  on  this  bright 
November  day,  with  sun  flashing,  and  waves  splashing, 
up  and  down  Chesapeake  Bay.  On  shore,  all  the  papers 
are  running  to  press  with  huge  headlines:  "Commodore 
Perry  Sails."  Dining-tables  buzz  with  travellers'  tales 
of  old  Japan  culled  from  Dutch  writers.  But  we  are  not 
like  the  Dutch.  No  shutting  the  stars  and  stripes  up 
on  an  island.  Pooh!  We  must  trade  wherever  we  have 
a  mind.  Naturally! 

The  wharves  of  Norfolk  are  falling  behind,  becoming 
smaller,  confused  with  the  warehouses  and  the  trees. 
On  the  impetus  of  the  strong  South  breeze,  the  paddle- 
wheel  steam  frigate  Mississippi  of  the  United  States 
Navy,  sails  down  the  flashing  bay.  Sails  away,  and  steams 
away,  for  her  furnaces  are  burning,  and  her  paddle-wheels 
turning,  and  all  her  sails  are  set  and  full.  Pull,  men,  to 
the  old  chorus: 

157 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"A  Yankee  ship  sails  down  the  river, 
Blow,  boys,  blow; 

Her  masts  and  spars  they  shine  like  silver, 
Blow,  my  bully  boys,  blow." 

But  what  is  the  use?  That  plaguey  brass  band  blares 
out  with  "The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  and  you  cannot 
hear  the  men  because  of  it.  Which  is  a  pity,  thinks  the 
Commodore,  in  his  cabin,  studying  the  map,  and  mark 
ing  stepping-stones:  Madeira,  Cape  Town,  Mauritius, 
Singapore,  nice  firm  stepping-places  for  seven-league 
boots.  Flag-stones  up  and  down  a  hemisphere. 

My!  How  she  throws  the  water  off  from  her  bows, 
and  how  those  paddle-wheels  churn  her  along  at  the  rate 
of  seven  good  knots!  You  are  a  proud  lady,  Mrs.  Missis 
sippi,  curtseying  down  Chesapeake  Bay,  all  a-flutter 
with  red,  white  and  blue  ribbons. 

At  Mishiwa  in  the  Province  of  Kai, 
Three  men  are  trying  to  measure  a  pine  tree 
By  the  length  of  their  outstretched  arms. 
Trying  to  span  the  bole  of  a  huge  pine  tree 
By  the  spread  of  their  lifted  arms. 
Attempting  to  compress  its  girth 
Within  the  limit  of  their  extended  arms. 
Beyond,  Fuji, 
Majestic,  inevitable, 
Wreathed  over  by  wisps  of  cloud. 
The  clouds  draw  about  the  mountain, 
But  there  are  gaps. 
The  men  reach  about  the  pine  tree, 
But  their  hands  break  apart; 
158 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  rough  bark  escapes  their  hand-clasps; 

The  tree  is  unencircled. 

Three  men  are  trying  to  measure  the  stem  of  a  gigantic 

pine  tree, 
With  their  arms, 
At  Mishiwa  in  the  Province  of  Kai. 

Furnaces  are  burning  good  Cumberland  coal  at  the 
rate  of  twenty-six  tons  per  diem,  and  the  paddle-wheels 
turn  round  and  round  in  an  iris  of  spray.  She  noses  her 
way  through  a  wallowing  sea;  foots  it,  bit  by  bit,  over 
the  slanting  wave  slopes;  pants  along,  thrust  forward 
by  her  breathing  furnaces,  urged  ahead  by  the  wind 
draft  flattening  against  her  taut  sails. 

The  Commodore,  leaning  over  the  taffrail,  sees  the 
peak  of  Madeira  swept  up  out  of  the  haze.  The  Missis 
sippi  glides  into  smooth  water,  and  anchors  under  the 
leeofthe"Desertas." 

Ah!  the  purple  bougainvillia!  And  the  sweet  smells 
of  the  heliotrope  and  geranium  hedges!  Ox-drawn  sledges 
clattering  over  cobbles  —  what  a  fine  pause  in  an  endless 
voyaging.  Stars  and  stripes  demanding  five  hundred 
tons  of  coal,  ten  thousand  gallons  of  water,  resting  for  a 
moment  on  a  round  stepping-stone,  with  the  drying  sails 
slatting  about  in  the  warm  wind. 

"Get  out  your  accordion,  Jim,  and  give  us  the  'Sewanee 
River'  to  show  those  Dagos  what  a  tune  is.  Pipe  up  with 
the  chorus,  boys.  Let  her  go." 

The  green  water  flows  past  Madeira.  Flows  under 
the  paddle-boards,  making  them  clip  and  clap.  The 
green  water  washes  along  the  sides  of  the  Commodore's 
steam  flagship  and  passes  away  to  leeward. 

159 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"Hitch  up  your  trousers,  Black  Face,  and  do  a  horn 
pipe.  It's  a  fine  quiet  night  for  a  double  shuffle.  Keep 
her  going,  Jim.  Louder.  That's  the  ticket.  Gosh,  but 
you  can  spin,  Blackey!" 

The  road  is  hilly 

Outside  the  Tiger  Gate, 

And  striped  with  shadows  from  a  bow  moon 

Slowly  sinking  to  the  horizon. 

The    roadway    twinkles    with    the    bobbing    of   paper 

lanterns, 

Melon-shaped,  round,  oblong, 
Lighting  the  steps  of  those  who  pass  along  it; 
And  there  is  a  sweet  singing  of  many  semi, 
From  the  cages  which  an  insect  seller 
Carries  on  his  back. 

Westward  of  the  Canaries,  in  a  wind-blazing  sea. 
Engineers,  there,  extinguish  the  furnaces;  carpenters, 
quick,  your  screwdrivers  and  mallets,  and  unship  the 
paddle-boards.  Break  out  her  sails,  quartermasters,  the 
wind  will  carry  her  faster  than  she  can  steam,  for  the 
trades  have  her  now,  and  are  whipping  her  along  in  fine 
clipper  style.  Key-guns,  your  muzzles  shine  like  basalt 
above  the  tumbling  waves.  Polished  basalt  cameoed 
upon  malachite.  Yankee-doedle-dandy!  A  fine  upstand 
ing  ship,  clouded  with  canvas,  slipping  along  like  a  trotting 
filly  out  of  the  Commodore's  own  stables.  White  sails  and 
sailors,  blue-coated  officers,  and  red  in  a  star  sparked 
through  the  claret  decanter  on  the  Commodore's  luncheon 
table. 

The  Commodore  is  writing  to  his  wife,  to  be  posted 
160 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

at  the  next  stopping  place.     Two  years  is  a  long  time  to 
be  upon  the  sea. 

Nigi-oi  of  Matsuba-ya 

Celebrated  oiran, 

Courtesan  of  unrivalled  beauty, 

The  great  silk  mercer,  Mitsui, 

Counts  himself  a  fortunate  man 

As  he  watches  her  parade  in  front  of  him 

In  her  robes  of  glazed  blue  silk 

Embroidered  with  singing  nightingales. 

He  puffs  his  little  silver  pipe 

And  arranges  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

He  parts  it  at  the  neck 

And  laughs  when  the  falling  plum-blossoms 

Tickle  her  naked  breasts. 

The  next  morning  he  makes  out  a  bill 

To  the  Director  of  the  Dutch  Factory  at  Nagasaki 

For  three  times  the  amount  of  the  goods 

Forwarded  that  day  in  two  small  junks 

In  the  care  of  a  trusted  clerk. 

The  Northeast  trades  have  smoothed  away  into  hot, 
blue  doldrums.  Paddle-wheels  to  the  rescue.  Thank 
God,  we  live  in  an  age  of  invention.  What  air  there  is, 
is  dead  ahead.  The  deck  is  a  bed  of  cinders,  we  wear  a 
smoke  cloud  like  a  funeral  plume.  Funeral  —  of  whom? 
Of  the  little  heathens  inside  the  Gate?  Wait!  Wait! 
These  monkey-men  have  got  to  trade,  Uncle  Sam  has 
laid  his  plans  with  care,  see  those  black  guns  sizzling 
there.  "It's  deuced  hot,"  says  a  lieutenant,  "I  wish  I 
could  look  in  at  a  hop  in  Newport  this  evening." 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  one  hundred  and  sixty  streets  in  the  Sanno  quarter 

Are  honey-gold, 

Honey-gold  from  the  gold-foil  screens  in  the  houses, 

Honey-gold  from  the  fresh  yellow  mats; 

The  lintels  are  draped  with  bright  colors, 

And  from  eaves  and  poles 

Red  and  white  paper  lanterns 

Glitter  and  swing. 

Through  the  one  hundred  and  sixty  decorated  streets 

of  the  Sanno  quarter, 
Trails  the  procession, 
With  a  bright  slowness, 
To  the  music  of  flutes  and  drums. 
Great  white  sails  of  cotton 
Belly  out  along  the  honey-gold  streets. 
Sword  bearers, 
Spear  bearers, 
Mask  bearers, 

Grinning  masks  of  mountain  genii, 
And  a  white  cock  on  a  drum 
Above  a  purple  sheet. 
Over  the  flower  hats  of  the  people, 
Shines  the  sacred  palanquin, 
"Car  of  gentle  motion," 
Upheld  by  fifty  men, 
Stalwart  servants  of  the  god, 

Bending  under  the  weight  of  mirror-black  lacquer, 
Of  pillars  and  roof-tree 
Wrapped  in  chased  and  gilded  copper. 
Portly  silk  tassels  sway  to  the  marching  of  feet, 
Wreaths  of  gold  and  silver  flowers 
Shoot  sudden  scintillations  at  the  gold-foil  screens. 
162 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  golden  phoenix  on  the  roof  of  the  palanquin 
Spreads  its  wings, 
And  seems  about  to  take  flight 
Over  the  one  hundred  and  sixty  streets 
Straight  into  the  white  heart 
Of  the  curved  blue  sky. 
Six  black  oxen, 

With  white  and  red  trappings, 

Draw  platforms  on  which  are  musicians,  dancers,  actors, 
Who  posture  and  sing, 
Dance  and  parade, 
Up  and  down  the  honey-gold  streets, 
To  the  sweet  playing  of  flutes, 
And  the  ever-repeating  beat  of  heavy  drums, 
To  the  constant  banging  of  heavily  beaten  drums, 
To  the  insistent  repeating  rhythm  of  beautiful  great 
drums. 

Across  the  equator  and  panting  down  to  Saint  Helena, 
trailing  smoke  like  a  mourning  veil.  Jamestown  jetty, 
and  all  the  officers  in  the  ship  making  at  once  for  Long- 
wood.  Napoleon!  Ah,  tales  —  tales  —  with  nobody  to 
tell  them.  A  bronze  eagle  caged  by  floating  wood-work. 
A  heart  burst  with  beating  on  a  flat  drop-curtain  of  sea 
and  sky.  Nothing  now  but  pigs  in  a  sty.  Pigs  rooting 
in  the  Emperor's  bedroom.  God  be  praised,  we  have  a 
plumed  smoking  ship  to  take  us  away  from  this  desolation. 

"  Boney  was  a  warrior 

Away-i-oh; 
Boney  was  a  warrior, 
John  Francois." 

163 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Jack,  you  make  me  sick.  Those  pigs 
are  like  worms  eating  a  corpse.  Bah!" 

The  ladies, 

Wistaria  Blossom,  Cloth-of-Silk,  and  Deep  Snow, 

With  their  ten  attendants, 

Are  come  to  Asakusa 

To  gaze  at  peonies. 

To  admire  crimson-carmine  peonies, 

To   stare   in   admiration    at   bomb-shaped,   white   and 

sulphur  peonies, 
To  caress  with  a  soft  finger 
Single,  rose-flat  peonies, 
Tight,  incurved,  red-edged  peonies, 
Spin-wheel  circle,  amaranth  peonies. 
To  smell  the  acrid  pungence  of  peony  blooms, 
And  dream  for  months  afterwards 
Of  the  temple  garden  at  Asakusa, 
Where  they  walked  together 
Looking  at  peonies. 

The  Gate!  The  Gate!  The  far-shining  Gate!  Pat 
your  guns  and  thank  your  stars  you  have  not  come  too 
late.  The  Orient 's  a  sleepy  place,  as  all  globe-trotters 
say.  We'll  get  there  soon  enough,  my  lads,  and  carry  it 
away.  That's  a  good  enough  song  to  round  the  Cape 
with,  and  there's  the  Table  Cloth  on  Table  Mountain 
and  we've  drawn  a  bead  over  half  the  curving  world. 
Three  cheers  for  Old  Glory,  fellows. 

A  Daimino's  procession 
Winds  between  two  green  hills, 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

A  line  of  thin,  sharp,  shining,  pointed  spears 

Above  red  coats 

And  yellow  mushroom  hats. 

A  man  leading  an  ox 

Has  cast  himself  upon  the  ground, 

He  rubs  his  forehead  in  the  dust, 

While  his  ox  gazes  with  wide,  moon  eyes 

At  the  glittering  spears 

Majestically  parading 

Between  two  green  hills. 

Down,  down,  down,  to  the  bottom  of  the  map;  but 
we  must  up  again,  high  on  the  other  side.  America,  sail 
ing  the  seas  of  a  planet  to  stock  the  shop  counters  at 
home.  Commerce-raiding  a  nation;  pulling  apart  the 
curtains  of  a  temple  and  calling  it  trade.  Magnificent 
mission!  Every  shop-till  in  every  by-street  will  bless 
you.  Force  the  shut  gate  with  the  muzzles  of  your  black 
cannon.  Then  wait  —  wait  for  fifty  years  —  and  see 
who  has  conquered. 

But  now  the  Mississippi  must  brave  the  Cape,  in  a 
crashing  of  bitter  seas.  The  wind  blows  East,  the  wind 
blows  West,  there  is  no  rest  under  these  clashing  clouds. 
Petrel  whirl  by  like  torn  newspapers  along  a  street. 
Albatrosses  fly  close  to  the  mast-heads.  Dread  purrs 
over  this  stormy  ocean,  and  the  smell  of  the  water  is  the 
dead,  oozing  dampness  of  tombs. 

Tiger  rain  on  the  temple  bridge  of  carved  greenstone, 
Slanting  tiger  lines  of  rain  on  the  lichened  lanterns  of 

the  gateway, 
On  the  stone  statues  of  mythical  warriors. 

165 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Striped  rain  making  the  bells  of  the  pagoda  roofs  flutter, 
Tiger-footing  on  the  bluish  stones  of  the  courtyard, 
Beating,  snapping,  on  the  cheese-rounds  of  open  um 
brellas, 
Licking,   tiger-tongued,   over  the  straw  mat  which   a 

pilgrim  wears  upon  his  shoulders, 
Gnawing,  tiger-toothed,  into  the  paper  mask 
Which  he  carries  on  his  back. 
Tiger-clawed  rain  scattering  the  peach-blossoms, 
Tiger  tails  of  rain  lashing  furiously  among  the  crypto- 
merias. 

"Land  —  O."  Mauritius.  Stepping-stone  four.  The 
coaling  ships  have  arrived,  and  the  shore  is  a  hive  of 
Negroes,  and  Malays,  and  Lascars,  and  Chinese.  The 
clip  and  clatter  of  tongues  is  unceasing.  "What  awful 
brutes!"  "Obviously,  but  the  fruits  they  sell  are  good." 
"Food,  fellows,  bully  good  food."  Yankee  money  for 
pine-apples,  shaddocks,  mangoes.  "Who  were  Paul  and 
Virginia?"  "Oh,  a  couple  of  spooneys  who  died  here,  in 
a  shipwreck,  because  the  lady  would  n't  take  off  her 
smock."  "I  say,  Fred,  that's  a  shabby  way  to  put  it. 
You've  no  sentiment."  "Maybe,  I  don't  read  much 
myself,  and  when  I  do,  I  prefer  United  States,  something 
like  old  Artemus  Ward,  for  instance."  "Oh,  dry  up,  and 
let's  get  some  donkeys  and  go  for  a  gallop.  We've  got 
to  begin  coaling  to-morrow,  remember." 

The  beautiful  dresses, 
Blue,  Green,  Mauve,  Yellow; 
And  the  beautiful  green  pointed  hats 
Like  Chinese  porcelains! 
1 66 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

See,  a  band  of  geisha 

Is   imitating   the   state   procession   of  a   Corean   Am 
bassador, 

Under  painted  streamers, 
On  an  early  afternoon. 

The  hot  sun  burns  the  tar  up  out  of  the  deck.  The 
paddle-wheels  turn,  flinging  the  cupped  water  over  their 
shoulders.  Heat  smoulders  along  the  horizon.  The 
shadow  of  the  ship  floats  off  the  starboard  quarter,  floats 
like  a  dark  cloth  on  the  sea.  The  watch  is  pulling  on  the 
topsail  halliards: 

"O  Sally  Brown  of  New  York  City, 
Ay,  ay,  roll  and  go." 

Like  a  tired  beetle,  the  Mississippi  creeps  over  the  flat, 
glass  water,  creeps  on,  breathing  heavily.  Creeps  — 
creeps  —  and  sighs  and  settles  at  Pointe  de  Galle,  Ceylon. 

Spice  islands  speckling  the  Spanish  Main.  Fairy  tales 
and  stolen  readings.  Saint  John's  Eve!  Midsummer 
Madness!  Here  it  is  all  true.  But  the  smell  of  the  spice- 
trees  is  not  so  nice  as  the  smell  of  new-mown  hay  on  the 
Commodore's  field  at  Tarrytown.  But  what  can  one  say 
to  forests  of  rose-wood,  satin-wood,  ebony!  To  the  talipot 
tree,  one  leaf  of  which  can  cover  several  people  with  its 
single  shade.  Trade!  Trade!  Trade  in  spices  for  an 
earlier  generation.  We  dream  of  lacquers  and  precious 
stones.  Of  spinning  telegraph  wires  across  painted  fans. 
Ceylon  is  an  old  story,  ours  will  be  the  glory  of  more 
important  conquests.  . 

But  wait  —  wait.  No  one  is  likely  to  force  the  Gate. 

167 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  smoke  of  golden  Virginia  tobacco  floats  through  the 
blue  palms.  "You  say  you  killed  forty  elephants  with 
this  rifle!"  "Indeed,  yes,  and  a  trifling  bag,  too." 

Down  the  ninety  mile  rapids 

Of  the  Heaven  Dragon  River, 

He  came, 

With  his  bowmen, 

And  his  spearmen, 

Borne  in  a  gilded  palanquin, 

To  pass  the  Winter  in  Yedo 

By  the  Shogun's  decree. 

To  pass  the  Winter  idling  in  the  Yoshiwara, 

While  his  bowmen  and  spearmen 

Gamble  away  their  rusted  weapons 

Every  evening 

At  the  Hour  of  the  Cock. 

Her  Britannic  Majesty's  frigate  Cleopatra  salutes  the 
Mississippi  as  she  sails  into  the  harbor  of  Singapore. 
Vessels  galore  choke  the  wharves.  From  China,  Siam, 
Malaya;  Sumatra,  Europe,  America.  This  is  the  bargain 
counter  of  the  East.  Goods  —  Goods,  dumped  ashore 
to  change  boats  and  sail  on  again.  Oaths  and  cupidity; 
greasy  clothes  and  greasy  dollars  wound  into  turbans. 
Opium  and  birds'-nests  exchanged  for  teas,  cassia,  nan 
keens;  gold  thread  bartered  for  Brummagem  buttons. 
Pocket  knives  told  off  against  teapots.  Lots  and  lots  of 
cheap  damaged  porcelains,  and  trains  of  silken  bales 
awaiting  advantageous  sales  to  Yankee  merchantmen. 
The  figurehead  of  the  Mississippi  should  be  a  beneficent 
angel.  With  her  guns  to  persuade,  she  should  lay  the 
1 68 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

foundation  of  such  a  market  on  the  shores  of  Japan. 
"We  will  do  what  we  can,"  writes  the  Commodore,  in 
his  cabin. 

Outside  the  drapery  shop  of  Taketani  Sabai, 

Strips  of  dried  cloth  are  hanging  out  to  dry. 

Fine  Arimitsu  cloth, 

Fine  blue  and  white  cloth, 

Falling  from  a  high  staging, 

Falling  like  falling  water, 

Like  blue  and  white  unbroken  water 

Sliding  over  a  high  cliff, 

Like  the  Ono  Fall  on  the  Kisokaido  Road. 

Outside  the  shop  of  Taketani  Sabai, 

They  have  hung  the  fine  dyed  tloth 

In  strips  out  to  dry. 

Romance  and  heroism;  and  all  to  make  one  dollar  two. 
Through  grey  fog  and  fresh  blue  breezes,  through  heat, 
and  sleet,  and  sheeted  rain.  For  centuries  men  have 
pursued  the  will-o'-the-wisp  —  trade.  And  they  have  got 
—  what?  All  civilization  weighed  in  twopenny  scales 
and  fastened  with  string.  A  sailing  planet  packed  in  a 
dry-goods  box.  Knocks,  and  shocks,  and  blocks  of  ex 
tended  knowledge,  contended  for  and  won.  Cloves  and 
nutmegs,  and  science  stowed  among  the  grains.  Your 
gains  are  not  in  silver,  mariners,  but  in  the  songs  of  violins, 
and  the  thin  voices  whispering  through  printed  books. 

"It  looks  like  a  dinner-plate,"  thinks  the  officer  of 
the  watch,  as 'the  Mississippi  sails  up  the  muddy  river 
to  Canton,  with  the  Dragon's  Cave  Fort  on  one  side,  and 
the  Girl's  Shoe  Fort  on  the  other. 

169 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  Great  Gate  looms  in  a  distant  mist,  and  the 
anchored  squadron  waits  and  rests,  but  its  coming  is 
as  certain  as  the  equinoxes,  and  the  lightning  bolts  of 
its  guns  are  ready  to  tear  off  centuries  like  husks  of 
corn. 

The  Commodore  sips  bottled  water  from  Saratoga,  and 
makes  out  a  report  for  the  State  Department.  The  men 
play  pitch-and-toss,  and  the  officers  poker,  and  the  bet 
ting  gives  heavy  odds  against  the  little  monkey-men. 

On  the  floor  of  the  reception  room  of  the  Palace 
They  have  laid  a  white  quilt, 
And  on  the  quilt,  two  red  rugs; 
And  they  have  set  up  two  screens  of  white  paper 
To  hide  that  which  should  not  be  seen. 
At  the  four  corners,  they  have  placed  lanterns, 
And  now  they  come. 
Six  attendants, 

Three  to  sit  on  either  side  of  the  condemned  man, 
Walking  slowly. 
Three  to  the  right, 
Three  to  the  left, 
And  he  between  them 
In  his  dress  of  ceremony 
With  the  great  wings. 

Shadow  wings,  thrown  by  the  lantern  light, 
Trail  over  the  red  rugs  to  the  polished  floor, 
Trail  away  unnoticed, 
For  there  is  a  sharp  glitter  from  a  dagger 
Borne  past  the  lanterns  on  a  silver  tray, 
"O  my  Master, 
I  would  borrow  your  sword, 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

For  it  may  be  a  consolation  to  you 

To  perish  by  a  sword  to  which  you  are  accustomed." 

Stone,  the  face  of  the  condemned  man, 

Stone,  the  face  of  the  executioner, 

And  yet  before  this  moment 

These  were  master  and  pupil, 

Honored  and  according  homage, 

And  this  is  an  act  of  honorable  devotion. 

Each  face  is  passive, 

Hewed  as  out  of  strong  stone, 

Cold  as  a  statue  above  a  temple  porch. 

Down  slips  the  dress  of  ceremony  to  the  girdle. 

Plunge  the  dagger  to  its  hilt. 

A  trickle  of  blood  runs  along  the  white  flesh 

And  soaks  into  the  girdle  silk. 

Slowly  across  from  left  to  right, 

Slowly,  upcutting  at  the  end, 

But  the  executioner  leaps  to  his  feet, 

Poises  the  sword  — 

Did  it  flash,  hover,  descend? 

There  is  a  thud,  a  horrible  rolling, 

And  the  heavy  sound  of  a  loosened,  falling  body, 

Then  only  the  throbbing  of  blood 

Spurting  into  the  red  rugs. 

For  he  who  was  a  man  is  that  thing 

Crumpled  up  on  the  floor, 

Broken,  and  crushed  into  the  red  rugs. 

The  friend  wipes  the  sword, 

And  his  face  is  calm  and  frozen 

As  a  stone  statue  on  a  Winter  night 

Above  a  temple  gateway. 


171 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


PART  II 

Four  vessels  giving  easily  to  the  low  running  waves 
and  catspaw  breezes  of  a  Summer  sea.  July,  1853,  Mid- 
Century,  but  just  on  the  turn.  Mid-Century,  with  the 
vanishing  half  fluttering  behind  on  a  foam-bubbled  wake. 
Four  war  ships  steering  for  the  "Land  of  Great  Peace," 
caparisoned  in  state,  cleaving  a  jewelled  ocean  to  a 
Dragon  Gate.  Behind  it,  the  quiet  of  afternoon.  Golden 
light  reflecting  from  the  inner  sides  of  shut  portals.  War 
is  an  old  wives'  tale,  a  frail  beautiful  embroidery  of  other 
ages.  The  panoply  of  battle  fades.  Arrows  rust  in 
arsenals,  spears  stand  useless  on  their  butts  in  vestibules. 
Cannon  lie  unmounted  in  castle  yards,  and  rats  and 
snakes  make  nests  in  them  and  rear  their  young  in  un 
molested  satisfaction. 

The  sun  of  midsummer  lies  over  the  "Land  of  Great 
Peace,"  and  behind  the  shut  gate  they  do  not  hear  the 
paddle-wheels  of  distant  vessels  unceasingly  turning  and 
advancing,  through  the  jewelled  scintillations  of  the 
encircling  sea. 

Susquehanna  and  Mississippi,  steamers,  towing  Sara 
toga  and  Plymouth,  sloops  of  war.  Moving  on  in  the  very 
eye  of  the  wind,  with  not  a  snip  of  canvas  upon  their 
slim  yards.  Fugi!  —  a  point  above  nothing,  for  there  is 
a  haze.  Stop  gazing,  that  is  the  bugle  to  clear  decks  and 
shot  guns.  We  must  be  prepared,  as  we  run  up  the  coast 
straight  to  the  Bay  of  Yedo.  "I  say,  fellows,  those  boats 
think  they  can  catch  us,  they  don't  know  that  this  is 
Yankee  steam."  Bang!  The  shore  guns  are  at  work.  And 
172 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

that  smoke-ball  would  be  a  rocket  at  night,  but  we  can 
not  see  the  gleam  in  this  sunshine. 

Black  with  people  are  the  bluffs  of  Uraga,  watching 
the  "fire-ships"  lipping  windless  up  the  bay.  Say  all 
the  prayers  you  know,  priests  of  Shinto  and  Buddha. 
Ah!  The  great  splashing  of  the  wheels  stops,  a  chain 
rattles.  The  anchor  drops  at  the  hour  of  the  ape. 

A  clock  on  the  Commodore's  chest  of  drawers  strikes 
five  with  a  silvery  tinkle. 

Boats  are  coming  from  all  directions.  Beautiful  boats 
of  unpainted  wood,  broad  of  beam,  with  tapering  sterns, 
and  clean  runs.  Swiftly  they  come,  with  shouting  rowers 
standing  to  their  oars.  The  shore  glitters  with  spears 
and  lacquered  hats.  Compactly  the  boats  advance, 
and  each  carries  a  flag  —  white-black-white  —  and  the 
stripes  break  and  blow.  But  the  tow-lines  are  cast 
loose  when  the  rowers  would  make  them  fast  to  the 
"black  ships,"  and  those  who  would  climb  the  chains 
slip  back  dismayed,  checked  by  a  show  of  cutlasses, 
pistols,  pikes.  "  Naru  Hodo!"  This  is  amazing,  unpre 
cedented!  Even  the  Vice  Governor,  though  he  boards 
the  Susquehanna,  cannot  see  the  Commodore.  "His 
High  Mighty  Mysteriousness,  Lord  of  the  Forbidden 
Interior,"  remains  in  his  cabin.  Extraordinary!  Horrible! 

Rockets  rise  from  the  forts,  and  their  trails  of  sparks 
glitter  faintly  now,  and  their  bombs  break  in  faded  colors 
as  the  sun  goes  down. 

Bolt  the  gate,  monkey-men,  but  it  is  late  to  begin 
turning  locks  so  rusty  and  worn. 

Darkness  over  rice-fields  and  hills.  The  Gold  Gate 
hides  in  shadow.  Upon  the  indigo-dark  water,  millions 
of  white  jelly-fish  drift,  like  lotus-petals  over  an  inland 

173 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

lake.  The  land  buzzes  with  prayer,  low,  dim  smoke 
hanging  in  air;  and  every  hill  gashes  and  glares  with 
shooting  fires.  The  fire-bells  are  ringing  in  double  time, 
and  a  heavy  swinging  boom  clashes  from  the  great  bells 
of  temples.  Couriers  lash  their  horses,  riding  furiously 
to  Yedo;  junks  and  scull-boats  arrive  hourly  at  Shinagawa 
with  news;  runners,  bearing  dispatches,  pant  in  govern 
ment  offices.  The  hollow  doors  of  the  Great  Gate  beat 
with  alarms.  The  charmed  Dragon  country  shakes  and 
trembles.  lyeyoshi,  twelfth  Shogun  of  the  Tokugawa 
line,  sits  in  his  city.  Sits  in  the  midst  of  one  million,  two 
hundred  thousand  trembling  souls,  and  his  mind  rolls 
forward  and  back  like  a  ball  on  a  circular  runway,  and 
finds  no  goal.  Roll,  poor  distracted  mind  of  a  sick  man. 
What  can  you  do  but  wait,  trusting  in  your  Dragon 
Gate,  for  how  should  you  know  that  it  is  rusted. 

But  there  is  a  sign  over  the  "black  ships."  A  wedge- 
shaped  tail  of  blue  sparklets,  edged  with  red,  trails  above 
them  as  though  a  Dragon  were  pouring  violet  sulphurous 
spume  from  steaming  nostrils,  and  the  hulls  and  rigging 
are  pale,  quivering,  bright  as  Taira  ghosts  on  the  sea  of 
Nagato. 

Up  and  down,  walk  sentinels,  fore  and  aft,  and  at  the 
side  gangways.  There  is  a  pile  of  round  shot  and  four 
stands  of  grape  beside  each  gun;  and  carbines,  and  pistols, 
and  cutlasses,  are  laid  in  the  boats.  Floating  arsenals  — 
floating  sample-rooms  for  the  wares  of  a  continent,  shop- 
counters,  flanked  with  weapons,  adrift  among  the  jelly- 
fishes. 

Eight  bells,  and  the  meteor  washes  away  before  the 
wet,  white  wisps  of  dawn. 

Through    the    countrysides    of   the    "Land    of   Great 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Peace,"  flowers  are  blooming.  The  greenish-white,  sterile 
blossoms  of  hydrangeas  boom  faintly  like  distant  in 
audible  bombs  of  color  exploding  in  the  woods.  Weigelias 
prick  the  pink  of  their  slender  trumpets  against  green 
backgrounds.  The  fan-shaped  leaves  of  ladies'  slippers 
rustle  under  cryptomerias. 

Midsummer  heat  curls  about  the  cinnamon-red  tree- 
boles  along  the  Tokaido.  The  road  ripples  and  glints 
with  the  passing  to  and  fro,  and  beyond,  in  the  road 
stead,  the  "black  ships"  swing  at  their  anchors  and  wait. 

All  up  and  down  the  Eastern  shore  of  the  bay  is  a 
feverish  digging,  patting,  plastering.  Forts  to  be  built 
in  an  hour  to  resist  the  barbarians,  if,  peradventure,  they 
can.  Japan  turned  to,  what  will  it  not  do!  Fishermen  and 
palanquin-bearers,  packhorse-leaders  and  farm-laborers, 
even  women  and  children,  pat  and  plaster.  Disaster 
batters  at  the  Dragon  Gate.  Batters  at  the  doors  of 
Yedo,  where  Samurai  unpack  their  armour,  and  whet 
and  feather  their  arrows. 

Daimios  smoke  innumerable  pipes,  and  drink  un 
numbered  cups  of  tea,  discussing  —  discussing—  "What 
is  to  be  done?"  The  Shogun  is  no  Emperor.  What  shall 
they  do  if  the  "hairy  devils"  take  a  notion  to  go  to  Kioto! 
Then  indeed  would  the  Tokugawa  fall.  The  prisons  are 
crammed  with  those  who  advise  opening  the  Gate.  Open 
the  Gate,  and  let  the  State  scatter  like  dust  to  the  wind! 
Absurd!  Unthinkable!  Suppress  the  "brocade  pictures" 
of  the  floating  monsters  with  which  book-sellers  and 
picture-shop  keepers  are  delighting  and  affrighting  the 
populace.  Place  a  ban  on  speech.  Preach,  inert  Daimios 
—  the  Commodore  will  not  go  to  Nagasaki,  and  the  roar 
of  his  guns  will  drown  the  clattering  fall  of  your  Dragon 

175 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

doors  if  you  do  not  open  them  in  time.  East  and  West, 
and  trade  shaded  by  heroism.  Hokusai  is  dead,  but  his 
pupils  are  lampooning  your  carpet  soldiers.  Spare  the 
dynasty  —  parley,  procrastinate.  Appoint  two  Princes 
to  receive  the  Commodore,  at  once,  since  he  will  not  wait 
over  long.  At  Kurihama,  for  he  must  not  come  to  Yedo. 

Flip  —  flap  —  flutter  —  flags  in  front  of  the  Confer 
ence  House.  Built  over  night,  it  seems,  with  unpainted 
peaked  summits  of  roofs  gleaming  like  ricks  of  grain. 
Flip  —  flutter  —  flap  —  variously-tinted  flags,  in  a  cres 
cent  about  nine  tall  standards  whose  long  scarlet  pennons 
brush  the  ground.  Beat  —  tap  —  fill  and  relapse  —  the 
wind  pushing  against  taut  white  cloth  screens,  bellying 
out  the  Shogun's  crest  of  heart-shaped  Asarum  leaves  in 
the  panels,  crumpling  them  to  indefinite  figures  of  scarlet 
spotting  white.  Flip  —  ripple  —  brighten  —  over  serried 
ranks  of  soldiers  on  the  beach.  Sword-bearers,  spear- 
bearers,  archers,  lancers,  and  those  who  carry  heavy, 
antiquated  match-locks.  The  block  of  them  five  thousand 
armed  men,  drawn  up  in  front  of  a  cracking  golden  door. 
But  behind  their  bristling  spears,  the  cracks  are  hidden. 

Braying,  blasting  blares  from  two  brass  bands,  ap 
proaching  in  glittering  boats  over  glittering  water.  One 
is  playing  the  "Overture"  from  "William  Tell,"  the 
other,  "The  Last  Rose  of  Summer,"  and  the  way  the 
notes  clash,  and  shock,  and  shatter,  and  dissolve,  is 
wonderful  to  hear.  Queer  barbarian  music,  and  the 
monkey-soldiers  stand  stock  still,  listening  to  its  reverber 
ation  humming  in  the  folded  doors  of  the  Great  Gate. 

Stuff"  your  ears,  monkey-soldiers,  screw  your  faces, 
shudder  up  and  down  your  spines.  Cannon!  Cannon! 
from  one  of  the  "black  ships."  Thirteen  thudding  ex- 
176 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

plosions,  thirteen  red  dragon  tongues,  thirteen  clouds  of 
smoke  like  the  breath  of  the  mountain  gods.  Thirteen 
hammer  strokes  shaking  the  Great  Gate,  and  the  seams 
in  the  metal  widen.  Open  Sesame,  shotless  guns;  and 
"The  Only,  High,  Grand  and  Mighty,  Invisible  Mysteri- 
ousness,  Chief  Barbarian"  reveals  himself,  and  steps  into 
his  barge. 

Up,  oars,  down;  drip  —  sun-spray  —  rowlock-rattle. 
To  shore!  To  shore!  Set  foot  upon  the  sacred  soil  of 
the  "Land  of  Great  Peace,"  with  its  five  thousand  armed 
men  doing  nothing  with  their  spears  and  match-locks, 
because  of  the  genii  in  the  black  guns  aboard  the  "black 
ships." 

jOne  hundred  marines  in  a  line  up  the  wharf.  One 
hundred  sailors,  man  to  man,  opposite  them.  Officers, 
two  deep;  and,  up  the  centre  —  the  Procession.  Bands 
together  now:  "Hail  Columbia."  Marines  in  file,  sailors 
after,  a  staff  with  the  American  flag  borne  by  seamen, 
another  with  the  Commodore's  broad  pennant.  Two 
boys,  dressed  for  ceremony,  carrying  the  President's 
letter  and  credentials  in  golden  boxes.  Tall,  blue-black 
negroes  on  either  side  of — THE  COMMODORE!  Walking 
slowly,  gold,  blue,  steel-glitter,  up  to  the  Conference 
House,  walking  in  state  up  to  an  ancient  tottering  Gate, 
lately  closed  securely,  but  now  gaping.  Bands,  rain  your 
music  against  this  golden  barrier,  harry  the  ears  of  the 
monkey-men.  The  doors  are  ajar,  and  the  Commodore 
has  entered. 

Prince  of  Idzu  —  Prince  of  Iwami  —  in  winged  dresses 
of  gold  brocade,  at  the  end  of  a  red  carpet,  under  violet, 

177 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

silken  hangings,  under  crests  of  scarlet  heart-shaped 
Asarum  leaves,  guardians  of  a  scarlet  lacquered  box, 
guardians  of  golden  doors,  worn  thin  and  bending. 

In  silence  the  blue-black  negroes  advance,  and  take 
the  golden  boxes  from  the  page  boys;  in  silence  they 
open  them  and  unwrap  bine  velvet  coverings.  Silently 
they  display  the  documents  to  the  Prince  of  Idzu  —  the 
Prince  of  Iwami  —  motionless,  inscrutable  —  beyond 
the  red  carpet. 

The  vellum  crackles  as  it  is  unfolded,  and  the  long 
silk-gold  cords  of  the  seals  drop  their  gold  tassels  to 
straight  glistening  inches  and  swing  slowly  —  gold  tassels 
clock-ticking  before  a  doomed,  burnished  gate. 

The  negroes  lay  the  vellum  documents  upon  the  scarlet 
lacquered  box;  bow,  and  retire. 

"I  am  desirous  that  our  two  countries  should  trade 
with  each  other."  Careful  letters,  carefully  traced  on 
rich  parchment,  and  the  low  sun  casts  the  shadow  of 
the  Gate  far  inland  over  high  hills. 

"The  letter  of  the  President  of  the  United  States  will 
be  delivered  to  the  Emperor.  Therefore  you  can  now 

go." 

The  Commodore,  rising:  "I  will  return  for  the  answer 
during  the  coming  Spring." 

But  ships  are  frail,  and  seas  are  fickle,  one  can  nail 
fresh  plating  over  the  thin  gate  before  Spring.  Prince 
of  Idzu  —  Prince  of  Iwami  —  inscrutable  statesmen, 
insensate  idiots,  trusting  blithely  to  a  lock  when  the  key- 
guns  are  trained  even  now  upon  it. 

Withdraw,  Procession.     Dip  oars  back  to  the  "black 
ships."     Slip  cables  and  depart,  for  day  after  day  will 
lapse  and  nothing  can  retard  a  coming  Spring. 
178 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Panic  Winter  throughout  the  "Land  of  Great  Peace." 
Panic,  and  haste,  wasting  energies  and  accomplishing 
nothing.  Kioto  has  heard,  and  prays,  trembling.  Priests 
at  the  shrine  of  Ise  whine  long  slow  supplications  from 
dawn  to  dawn,  and  through  days  dropping  down  again 
from  morning.  lyeyoshi  is  dead,  and  lyesada  rules  in 
Yedo;  thirteenth  Shogun  of  the  Tokugawa.  Rules  and 
struggles,  rescinds  laws,  urges  reforms;  breathless,  agitated 
endeavors  to  patch  and  polish  where  is  only  corroding 
and  puffed  particles  of  dust. 

It  is  Winter  still  in  the  Bay  of  Yedo,  though  the 
plum-trees  of  Kamata  and  Kinagawa  are  white  and 
fluttering. 

Winter,  with  green,  high,  angular  seas.  But  over 
the  water,  far  toward  China,  are  burning  the  furnaces 
of  three  great  steamers,  and  four  sailing  vessels  heel 
over,  with  decks  slanted  and  sails  full  and  pulling. 

"There's  a  bit  of  a  lop,  this  morning.  Mr.  Jones, 
you'd  better  take  in  those  royals." 

"Ay,  ay,  Sir.  Tumble  up  here,  men!  Tumble  up! 
Lay  aloft  and  stow  royals.  Haul  out  to  leeward." 

"To  my, 

Ay, 

And  we'll  furl 

Ay, 

And  pay  Paddy  Doyle  for  his  boots." 

"Tauht  band  —  knot  away." 

Chug!  Chug!  go  the  wheels  of  the  consorts,  salting 
smokestacks  with  whirled  spray. 

The  Commodore  lights  a  cigar,  and  paces  up  and 

179 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

down   the   quarter-deck   of  the   Powhatan.      "I   wonder 
what  the  old  yellow  devils  will  do,"  he  muses. 

Forty  feet  high,  the  camellia  trees,  with  hard,  green 
buds  unburst.  It  is  early  yet  for  camellias,  and  the 
green  buds  and  the  glazed  green  leaves  toss  frantically 
in  a  blustering  March  wind.  Sheltered  behind  the  forty 
feet  high  camellia  trees,  on  the  hills  of  Idzu,  stand  watch 
men  straining  their  eyes  over  a  broken  dazzle  of  sea. 

Just  at  the  edge  of  moonlight  and  sunlight  —  moon 
setting;  sun  rising  —  they  come.  Seven  war  ships  heeled 
over  and  flashing,  dashing  through  heaped  waves,  sleep 
ing  a  moment  in  hollows  leaping  over  ridges,  sweeping 
forward  in  a  strain  of  canvas  and  a  train  of  red-black 
smoke. 

"The  fire-ships!     The  fire-ships!" 

Slip  the  bridles  of  your  horses,  messengers,  and  clatter 
down  the  Tokaido;  scatter  pedestrians,  palanquins, 
slow  moving  cattle,  right  and  left  into  the  cryptomerias; 
rattle  over  bridges,  spatter  dust  into  shop-windows. 
To  Yedo!  To  Yedo!  For  Spring  is  here,  and  the  fire- 
ships  have  come! 

Seven  vessels,  flying  the  stars  and  stripes,  three  more 
shortly  to  join  them,  with  ripe,  fruit-bearing  guns  pointed 
inland. 

Princes  evince  doubt,  distrust.  Learning  must  beat 
learning.  Appoint  a  Professor  of  the  University.  Delay, 
prevaricate.  How  long  can  the  play  continue?  Hayashi, 
learned  scholar  of  Confucius  and  Mencius  —  he  shall 
confer  with  the  Barbarians  at  Uraga.  Shall  he!  Word 
comes  that  the  Mighty  Chief  of  Ships  will  not  go  to 
180 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Uraga.  Steam  is  up,  and  —  Horror!  Consternation! 
The  squadron  moves  toward  Yedo!  Sailors,  midshipmen, 
lieutenants  pack  yards  and  cross-trees,  seeing  temple 
gates,  castle  towers,  flowered  pagodas,  and  look-outs 
looming  distantly  clear,  and  the  Commodore  on  deck 
can  hear  the  slow  booming  of  the  bells  from  the  temples 
of  Shiba  and  Asakusa. 

You  must  capitulate,  great  Princes  of  a  quivering 
Gate.  Say  Yokohama,  and  the  Commodore  will  agree, 
for  they  must  not  come  to  Yedo. 

Rows  of  japonicas  in  full  bloom  outside  the  Confer 
ence  House.  Flags  and  streamers,  and  musicians  and 
pikemen.  Five  hundred  officers,  seamen,  marines,  and 
the  Commodore  following  in  his  white-painted  gig.  A 
jig  of  fortune  indeed,  with  a  sailor  and  a  professor  ma 
noeuvring  for  terms,  chess-playing  each  other  in  a  game 
of  future  centuries. 

The  Americans  bring  presents.  Presents  now,  to  be 
bought  hereafter.  Goodwill,  to  head  long  bills  of  imports. 
Occidental  mechanisms  to  push  the  Orient  into  limbo. 
Fox-moves  of  interpreters,  and  Pandora's  box  with  a 
contents  rated  far  too  low. 

Round  and  round  goes  the  little  train  on  its  circular 
railroad,  at  twenty  miles  an  hour,  with  grave  dignitaries 
seated  on  its  roof.  Smiles,  gestures,  at  messages  running 
over  wire,  a  mile  away.  Touch  the  harrows,  the  plows, 
the  flails,  and  shudder  at  the  "spirit  pictures"  of  the 
daguerreotype  machine.  These  Barbarians  have  harnessed 
gods  and  dragons.  They  build  boats  which  will  not 
sink,  and  tinker  little  gold  wheels  till  they  follow  the 
swinging  of  the  sun. 

Run  to  the  Conference  House.  See,  feel,  listen.  And 

181 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

shrug  deprecating  shoulders  at  the  glisten  of  silk  and 
lacquer  given  in  return.  What  are  cups  cut  out  of  conch- 
shells,  and  red-dyed  figured  crepe,  to  railroads,  and 
burning  engines! 

Go  on  board  the  "black  ships"  and  drink  mint  juleps 
and  brandy  smashes,  and  click  your  tongues  over  sweet 
puddings.  Offer  the  strangers  pickled  plums,  sugared 
fruits,  candied  walnuts.  Bruit  the  news  far  inland 
through  the  mouths  of  countrymen.  Who  thinks  of  the 
Great  Gate!  Its  portals  are  pushed  so  far  back  that  the 
shining  edges  of  them  can  scarcely  be  observed.  The 
Commodore  has  never  swerved  a  moment  from  his  pur 
pose,  and  the  dragon  mouths  of  his  guns  have  conquered 
without  the  need  of  a  single  powder-horn. 

The  Commodore  writes  in  his  cabin.  Writes  an  account 
of  what  he  has  done. 

The  sands  of  centuries  run  fast,  one  slides,  and  an 
other,  each  falling  into  a  smother  of  dust. 

A  locomotive  in  pay  for  a  Whistler;  telegraph  wires 
buying  a  revolution;  weights  and  measures  and  Audubon's 
birds  in  exchange  for  fear.  Yellow  monkey-men  leap 
ing  out  of  Pandora's  box,  shaking  the  rocks  of  the  Western 
coastline.  Golden  California  bartering  panic  for  prints. 
The  dressing-gowns  of  a  continent  won  at  the  cost  of 
security.  Artists  and  philosophers  lost  in  the  hour-glass 
and  pouring  through  an  open  Gate. 

Ten  ships  sailing  for  China  on  a  fair  May  wind.  Ten 
ships  sailing  from  one  world  into  another,  but  never 
again  into  the  one  they  left.  Two  years  and  a  tip-turn 
is  accomplished.  Over  the  globe  and  back,  Rip  Van 
Winkle  ships.  Slip  into  your  docks  in  Newport,  in  Nor- 
182 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

folk,  in  Charlestown.     You  have  blown  off  the  locks  of 
the  East,  and  what  is  coming  will  come. 

POSTLUDE 

In  the  Castle  moat,  lotus  flowers  are  blooming, 

They  shine  with  the  light  of  an  early  moon 

Brightening  above  the  Castle  towers. 

They  shine  in  the  dark  circles  of  their  unreflecting  leaves. 

Pale  blossoms, 

Pale  towers, 

Pale  moon, 

Deserted  ancient  moat 

About  an  ancient  stronghold, 

Your  bowmen  are  departed, 

Your  strong  walls  are  silent, 

Their  only  echo 

A  croaking  of  frogs. 

Frogs  croaking  at  the  moon 

In  the  ancient  moat 

Of  an  ancient,  crumbling  Castle. 

1903.     JAPAN 

The  high  clifF  of  the  Kegon  waterfall,  and  a  young 
man  carving  words  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  He  finishes, 
pauses  an  instant,  and  then  leaps  into  the  foam-cloud 
rising  from  below.  But,  on  the  tree-trunk,  the  newly-cut 
words  blaze  white  and  hard  as  though  set  with  diamonds: 

"How  mightily  and  steadily  go  Heaven  and  Earth! 
How  infinite  the  duration  of  Past  and  Present!  Try  to 
measure  this  vastness  with  five  feet.  A  word  explains 
the  Truth  of  the  whole  Universe  —  unknowable.  To 
cure  my  agony  I  have  decided  to  die.  Now,  as  I  stand 

183 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

on  the  crest  of  this  rock,  no  uneasiness  is  left  in  me.  For 
the  first  time  I  know  that  extreme  pessimism  and  extreme 
optimism  are  one." 

1903.     AMERICA 

"Nocturne  —  Blue  and  silver  —  Battersea  Bridge. 
Nocturne  —  Grey  and  Silver  —  Chelsea  Embankment. 
Variations  in  Violet  and  Green." 

Pictures  in  a  glass-roofed  gallery,  and  all  day  long 
the  throng  of  people  is  so  great  that  one  can  scarcely 
see  them.  Debits  —  credits?  Flux  and  flow  through  a 
wide  gateway.  Occident  —  Orient  —  after  fifty  years. 

The  Seven  Arts  Amy  Lowell 


73  The  Field  of  Glory 

WAR  shook  the  land  where  Levi  dwelt, 
And  fired  the  dismal  wrath  he  felt, 
That  such  a  doom  was  ever  wrought 
As  his,  to  toil  while  others  fought; 
To  toil,  to  dream  —  and  still  to  dream, 
With  one  day  barren  as  another; 
To  consummate,  as  it  would  seem, 
The  dry  despair  of  his  old  mother. 

Far  off  one  afternoon  began 
The  sound  of  man  destroying  man; 
And  Levi,  sick  with  nameless  rage, 
Condemned  again  his  heritage, 
184 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  sighed  for  scars  that  might  have  come, 
And  would,  if  once  he  could  have  sundered 
Those  harsh,  inhering  claims  of  home 
That  held  him  while  he  cursed  and  wondered. 

Another  day,  and  then  there  came, 
Rough,  bloody,  ribald,  hungry,  lame, 
But  yet  themselves,  to  Levi's  door, 
Two  remnants  of  the  day  before. 
They  laughed  at  him  and  what  he  sought; 
They  jeered  him,  and  his  painful  acre; 
But  Levi  knew  that  they  had  fought, 
And  left  their  manners  to  their  Maker. 

That  night,  for  the  grim  widow's  ears, 
With  hopes  that  hid  themselves  in  fears, 
He  told  of  arms,  and  featly  deeds, 
Whereat  one  leaps  the  while  he  reads, 
And  said  he'd  be  no  more  a  clown, 
While  others  drew  the  breath  of  battle. 
The  mother  looked  him  up  and  down, 
And  laughed  —  a  scant  laugh  with  a  rattle. 

She  told  him  what  she  found  to  tell, 

And  Levi  listened,  and  heard  well 

Some  admonitions  of  a  voice 

That  left  him  no  cause  to  rejoice. 

He  sought  a  friend,  and  found  the  stars, 

And  prayed  aloud  that  they  should  aid  him; 

But  they  said  not  a  word  of  wars, 

Or  of  a  reason  why  God  made  him. 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  who's  of  this  or  that  estate 
We  do  not  wholly  calculate, 
When  baffling  shades  that  shift  and  cling 
Are  not  without  their  glimmering; 
When  even  Levi,  tired  of  faith, 
Beloved  of  none,  forgot  by  many, 
Dismissed  as  an  inferior  wraith, 
Reborn  may  be  as  great  as  any. 
The  Outlook  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


74  Fight 

The  Tale  of  a  Gunner  at  Plattsburgh,  1814  1 

JOCK  bit  his  mittens  off  and  blew  his  thumbs; 
He  scraped  the  fresh  sleet  from  the  frozen  sign: 
MEN  WTANTED  —  VOLUNTEERS.    Like  gusts  of  brine 

He  whiffed  deliriums 

Of  sound  —  the  droning  roar  of  rolling  rolling  drums 
And  shrilling  fifes,  like  needles  in  his  spine, 
And  drank,  blood-bright  from  sunrise  and  wild  shore, 
The  wine  of  war. 

With  ears  and  eyes  he  drank  and  dizzy  brain 
Till  all  the  snow  danced  red.     The  little  shacks 

1  In  the  naval  battle  of  Plattsburgh,  the  American  commander 
"  Macdonough  himself  worked  like  a  common  sailor,  in  pointing 
and  handling  a  favorite  gun.  While  bending  over  to  sight  it,  a 
round  shot  cut  in  two  the  spanker  boom,  which  fell  on  his  head  and 
struck  him  senseless  for  two  or  three  minutes;  he  then  leaped  to  his 
feet  and  continued  as  before,  when  a  shot  took  off  the  head  of  the 
captain  of  the  gun  crew  and  drove  it  in  his  face  with  such  force  as  to 
knock  him  to  the  other  side  of  the  deck"  —  From  "The  Naval  War  of 
1812,"  by  Theodore  Roosevelt. 
186 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

That  lined  the  road  of  muffled  hackmatacks 

Were  roofed  with  the  red  stain, 
Which  spread  in  reeling  rings  on  icy-blue  Champlain 
And  splotched  the  sky  like  daubs  of  sealing-wax, 
That  darkened  when  he  winked,  and  when  he  stared 

Caught  fire  and  flared. 

MEN  WANTED  —  VOLUNTEERS!    The  village  street, 
Topped  by  the  slouching  store  and  slim  flagpole, 
Loomed  grand  as  Rome  to  his  expanding  soul; 

Grandly  the  rhythmic  beat 
Of  feet  in  file  and  flags  and  fifes  and  filing  feet, 
The  roar  of  brass  and  unremitting  roll 
Of  drums  and  drums  bewitched  his  boyish  mood  — 

Till  he  hallooed. 

His  strident  echo  stung  the  lake's  wild  dawn 

And  startled  him  from  dreams.     Jock  rammed  his  cap 

And  rubbed  a  numb  ear  with  the  furry  flap, 

Then  bolted  like  a  faun, 
Bounding   through    shin-deep   sleigh-ruts   in    his   shaggy 

brawn, 

Blowing  white  frost-wreaths  from  red  mouth  agap 
Till,  in  a  gabled  porch  beyond  the  store, 

He  burst  the  door: 
» 

"Mother!"  he  panted.    "Hush!    Your  pa  ain't  up; 
He's  worser  since  this  storm.     What's  struck  ye  so?" 
"It's  volunteers!"    The  old  dame  stammered    "Oh!" 

And  stopped,  and  stirred  her  sup 

Of  morning  tea,  and  stared  down  in  the  trembling  cup. 

187 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"They're  musterin'  on  the  common  now."     "I  know," 
She  nodded  feebly;  then  with  sharp  surmise 
She  raised  her  eyes: 

She  raised  her  eyes,  and  poured  their  light  on  him 
Who  towered  glowing  there  —  bright  lips  apart, 
Cap  off,  and  brown  hair  tousled.     With  quick  smart 

She  felt  the  room  turn  dim 

And  seemed  she  heard,  far  off,  a  sound  of  cherubim 
Soothing  the  sudden  pain  about  her  heart. 
How  many  a  lonely  hour  of  after-woe 

She  saw  him  so! 

"Jock!"    And  once  more  the  white  lips  murmured  "Jock!" 

Her  fingers  slipped;  the  spilling  teacup  fell 

And  shattered,  tinkling  —  but  broke  not  the  spell. 

His  heart  began  to  knock, 

Jangling  the  hollow  rhythm  of  the  ticking  clock. 
"Mother,  it's  fight,  and  men  are  wanted!"     "Well, 
Ah  well,  it's  men  may  kill  us  women's  joys, 

It's  men  —  not  boys!" 

"I'm  seventeen!     I  guess  that  seventeen  — " 
" My  little  Jock !"     "Little!     I'm  six-foot-one. 
(Scorn  twitched  his  lip.)     You  saw  me,  how  I  skun 

The  town  last  Hallowe'en* 
At  wrastlin'."     (Now  the  mother  shifted  tack.)     "But 

Jean? 

You  won't  be  leavin'  Jean?"     "I  guess  a  gun 
Won't  rattle  her."     He  laughed,  and  turned  his  head. 

His  face  grew  red. 
1 88 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"  But  if  it  does  —  a  gal  don't  understand : 

It's  fight!"     "Jock,  boy,  your  pa  can't  last  much  more, 

And  who's  to  mind  the  stock  —  to  milk  and  chore?" 

Jock  frowned  and  gnawed  his  hand. 
"Mother,  it  's  men  must  mind  the  stock  —  our  own  born 

land, 

And  lick  the  invaders."     Slowly  in  the  door 
Stubbed  the  old,  worn-out  man.     "Woman,  let  be! 

It's  liberty: 

"It's  struck  him  like  fork-lightnin*  in  a  pine. 

I  felt  it,  too,  like  that  in  seventy-six; 

And  now,  if  't  wa'n't  for  creepin'  pains  and  cricks 

And  this  one  leg  o'  mine, 
I'd  holler  young  Jerusalem  like  him,  and  jine 
The  fight;  but  fight  don't  come  from  burnt-out  wicks; 
It  comes  from  fire."     "Mebbe,"  she  said,  "it  comes 

From  fifes  and  drums." 

"  Dad,  all  the  boys  are  down  from  the  back  hills. 
The  common's  cacklin'  like  hell's  cocks  and  hens; 
There's  swords  and  muskets  stacked  in  the  cow-pens 

And  knapsacks  in  the  mills; 

They  say  at  Isle  aux  Noix  Redcoats  are  holding  drills, 
And  we  're  to  build  a  big  fleet  at  Vergennes. 
Dad,  can't  I  go?"     "I  reckon  you're  a  man: 

Of  course  you  can. 

"I'll  do  the  chores  to  home,  you  do  'em  thar!" 

"Dad!"  —  "Lad!"     The  men  gripped  hands  and  gazed 

upon 

The  mother,  when  the  door  flew  wide.    There  shone 
A  young  face  like  a  star, 

189 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

A  gleam  of  bitter-sweet  'gainst  snowy  islands  far, 
A  freshness,  like  the  scent  of  cinnamon, 
Tingeing  the  air  with  ardor  and  bright  sheen. 
Jock  faltered:  "Jean!" 

"Jock,  don't  you  hear  the  drums?     I  dreamed  all  night 

I  heard  'em,  and  they  woke  me  in  black  dark. 

Quick,  ain't  you  comin'?     Can't  you  hear  'em?    Hark! 

The  men-folks  are  to  fight. 

I  wish  I  was  a  man!"     Jock  felt  his  throat  clutch  tight. 
"Men-folks!"     It  lit  his  spirit  like  a  spark 
Flashing  the  pent  gunpowder  of  his  pride. 

"Come  on!"  he  cried. 

"Here  —  wait!"     The  old  man  stumped  to  the  back  wall 
And  handed  down  his  musket.     "You'll  want  this; 
And  mind  what  game  you're  after,  and  don't  miss. 

Good-by:  I  guess  that's  all 

For  now.     Come  back  and  get  your  duds."     Jock,  loom 
ing  tall 

Beside  his  glowing  sweetheart,  stooped  to  kiss 
The  little  shrunken  mother.     Tiptoe  she  rose 

And  clutched  him  —  close. 

In  both  her  twisted  hands  she  held  his  head 
Clutched  in  the  wild  remembrance  of  dim  years  — 
A  baby  head,  suckling,  half  dewed  with  tears; 

A  tired  boy  abed 

By  candlelight;  a  laughing  face  beside  the  red 
Log-fire;  a  shock  of  curls  beneath  her  shears  — 
The  bright  hair  falling.     Ah,  she  tried  to  smother 

Her  wild  thoughts  —  "Mother! 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Mother!"  he  stuttered.    "Baby  Jock!"  she  moaned 

And  looked  far  in  his  eyes.  —  And  he  was  gone. 

The  porch  door  banged.     Out  in  the  blood-bright  dawn 

All  that  she  once  had  owned  — 
Her  heart's  proud  empire  —  passed,  her  life's  dream  sank 

unthroned. 

With  hands  still  reached,  she  stood  there  staring,  wan. 
"Hark,  woman!"  said   the  bowed   old  man.     "What  's 
tolling?" 

Drums  —  drums  were  rolling. 


Shy  wings  flashed  in  the  orchard,  glitter,  glitter; 

Blue  wings  bloomed  soft  through  blossom-colored  leaves, 

And  Phoebe!  Phoebe!  whistled  from  gray  eaves 

Through  water-shine  and  twitter 

And  spurt  of  flamey  green.     All  bane  of  earth  and  bitter 
Took  life  and  tasted  sweet  at  the  glad  reprieves 
Of  Spring,  save  only  in  an  old  dame's  heart 

That  grieved  apart. 

Crook-back  and  small,  she  poled  the  big  wellsweep: 
Creak  went  the  pole;  the  bucket  came  up  brimming. 
On  the  bright  water  lay  a  cricket  swimming 

Whose  brown  legs  tried  to  leap 
But,  draggling,  twitched   and  foundered  in  the  circling 

deep. 

The  old  dame  gasped;  her  thin  hand  snatched  him,  skim 
ming. 

"Dear  Lord,  he's  drowned,"  she  mumbled  with  dry  lips; 
"The  ships!  the  ships!" 

191 


,  THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Gently  she  laid  him  in  the  sun  and  dried 

The  little  dripping  body.     Suddenly 

Rose-red  gleamed  through  the  budding  apple  tree 

And  "Look!  a  letter!"  cried 

A  laughing  voice,  "and  lots  of  news  for  us  inside!" 
"How's  that,  Jean?     News  from  Jock!     Where  —  where 

is  he?" 
" Down  in  Vergennes — the  ship-yards."    "Ships!    Ah,  no! 

It  can't  be  so." 

"He's  goin'  to  fight  with  guns  and  be  a  tar. 

See  here:  he's  wrote  himself.     The  post  was  late. 

He  could  n't  write  before.     The  ship  is  great! 

She's  built,  from  keel  to  spar, 
And  called  the  Saratoga;  and  Jock's  got  a  scar 
Already — "     "Scar?"  the  mother  quavered.     "Wait," 
Jean  rippled,  "let  me  read."     "Quick,  then,  my  dear, 

He'll  want  to  hear  — 

"Jock's  pa:  I  guess  we  '11  find  him  in  the  yard. 

He  ain't  scarce  creepin'  round  these  days,  poor  Dan!" 

She  gripped  Jean's  arm  and  stumbled  as  they  ran, 

And  stopped  once,  breathing  hard. 

Around    them    chimney-swallows    skimmed    the    sheep- 
cropped  sward 

And  yellow  hornets  hummed.     The  sick  old  man 
Stirred  at  their  steps,  and  muttered  from  deep  muse: 

"Well,  ma;  what  news?" 

"From  Jockie  —  there's  a  letter!"     In  his  chair 
The  bowed  form  sat  bolt  upright.     "What's  he  say?" 
"He's  wrote  to  Jean.    I  guess  it's  boys  their  way 

To  think  old  folks  don't  care 
192 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

For    letters."     "Girl,    read    out."     Jean    smoothed    her 

wilding  hair 

And  sat  beside  them.     Out  of  the  blue  day 
A  golden  robin  called;  across  the  road 
A  heifer  lowed; 

And  old  ears  listened  while  youth  read:  "'Friend  Jean, 
Vergennes:  here's  where  we've  played  a  Yankee  trick. 
I'm  layin*  in  my  bunk  by  Otter  Crick 

And  scribblin'  you  this  mean 

Scrawl  for  to  tell  the  news  —  what-all  I  Ve  heerd  and  seen: 
Jennie,  we've  built  a  ship,  and  built  her  slick  — 
A  swan!  —  a  seven  hundred  forty  tonner, 

And  I'm  first  gunner. 

"'You  ought  to  seen  us  launch  her  t'other  day! 
Tell  dad  we've  christened  her  for  a  fight  of  hisn 
He  fought  at  Saratoga.  Now  just  listen! 

She's  twice  as  big,  folks  say, 

As  Perry's  ship  that  took  the  prize  at  Put-in  Bay; 
Yet  forty  days  ago,  hull,  masts  and  mizzen, 
The  whole  of  her  was  growin',  live  and  limber, 

In  God's  green  timber. 

'"I  helped  to  fell  her  main-mast  back  in  March. 

The  woods  was  snowed  knee-deep.     She  was  a  wonder: 

A  straight  white  pine.     She  fell  like  roarin'  thunder 

And  left  a  blue-sky  arch 

Above  her,  bustin'  all  to  kindlin's  a  tall  larch.  — 
Mebbe  the  scart  jack-rabbits  skun  from  under! 
Us  boys  hoorayed,  and  me  and  every  noodle 

Yelled  Yankee-Doodle! 

193 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"'My,  how  we  haw'd  and  gee'd  the  big  ox-sledges 
Haulin'  her  long  trunk  through  the  hemlock  dells, 
A-bellerin'  to  the  tinkle-tankle  bells, 

And  blunted  our  ax  edges 

Hackin'  new  roads  of  ice  'longside  the  rocky  ledges. 
We  stalled  her  twice,  but  gave  the  oxen  spells 
And  yanked  her  through  at  last  on  the  home-clearin'  - 

Lord,  wa'n't  we  cheerin'! 

'"Since  then  I've  seen  her  born,  as  you  might  say: 
Born  out  of  fire  and  water  and  men's  sweatin', 
Blast-furnace  rairin'  and  red  anvils  frettin* 

And  sawmills,  night  and  day, 

Screech-owlin'  like  't  was  Satan's  rumhouse  run  away 
Smellin'  of  tar  and  pitch.     But  I'm  forgettin' 
The  man  that's  primed  her  guns  and  paid  her  score: 

The  Commodore. 

'"Macdonough  —  he's  her  master,  and  she  knows 
His  voice,  like  he  was  talkin'  to  his  hound. 
There  ain't  a  man  of  her  but  ruther  'd  drown 

Than  tread  upon  his  toes; 

And  yet  with  his  red  cheeks  and  twinklin'  eyes,  a  rose 
Ain't  friendlier  than  his  looks  be.     When  he's  round, 
He  makes  you  feel  like  yo  're  a  gentleman 

American. 

"'But  I  must  tell  you  how  we're  hidin'  here. 
This  Otter  Crick  is  like  a  crook-neck  jug, 
And  we're  inside.     The  Redcoats  want  to  plug 

The  mouth,  and  cork  our  beer; 

So  last  week  Downie  sailed  his  British  lake  fleet  near 
494 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

To  fill  our  channel,  but  us  boys  had  dug 
Big  shore  intrenchments,  and  our  batteries 
Stung  'em  like  bees 

'"Till  they  skedaddled  whimperin'  up  the  lake; 
But  while  the  shots  was  flyin',  in  the  scrimmage, 
I  caught  a  ball  that  scotched  my  livin'  image.  — 

Now  Jean,  for  Sam  Hill's  sake, 

Don't  let-on  this  to  mother,  for  you  know  she'd  make 
A  deary-me-in'  that  would  last  a  grim  age. 
'T  ain't  much,  but  when  a  feller  goes  to  war 

What's  he  go  for 

"'If 't  ain't  to  fight,  and  take  his  chances?"      Jean 
Stopped  and  looked  down.    The  mother  did  not  speak. 
"Go  on,"  said  the  old  man.     Flush  tinged  her  cheek. 

"Truly  I  did  n't  mean  — 
There  ain't  much  more.     He  says:  'Goodbye  now,  little 

queen; 

We're  due  to  sail  for  Pittsburgh  this  day  week. 
Meantime  I'm  hopin'  hard  and  takin'  stock. 

Your  obedient  —  Jock.'" 

The  girl's  voice  ceased  in  silence.     Glitter,  glitter, 
The  shy  wings  flashed  through  blbssom-colored  leaves, 
And  Phoebe!  Phoebe!  whistled  from  gray  eaves 

Through  water-shine  and  twitter 

And  spurt  of  flamey  green.    But  bane  of  thought  is  bitter. 
The  mother's  heart  spurned  May's  sweet  make-believes, 
For  there,  through  falling  masts  and  gaunt  ships  looming, 

Guns  —  guns  were  booming. 


I9S 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


in 

Plattsburgh  —  and  windless  beauty  on  the  bay; 
Autumnal  morning  and  the  sun  at  seven: 
Southward  a  wedge  of  wild  ducks  in  the  heaven 

Dwindles,  and  far  away 
Dim  mountains  watch  the  lake,  where  lurking  for  their 

.prey 

Lie,  with  their  muzzled  thunders  and  pent  levin, 
The  war-ships  —  Eagle,  Preble,  Saratoga, 

Ticonderoga. 

And  now  a  little  wind  from  the  northwest 
Flutters  the  trembling  blue  with  snowy  flecks. 
A  gunner,  on  Macdonough's  silent  decks, 

Peers  from  his  cannon's  rest, 
Staring    beyond    the    low    north    headland.      Crest    on 

crest 

Behind  green  spruce-tops,  soft  as  wild-fowls'  necks, 
Glide  the  bright  spars  and  masts  and  whitened  wales 

Of  bellying  sails. 

Rounding,  the  British  lake-birds  loom  in  view, 
Ruffling  their  wings  in  silvery  arrogance: 
Chubb,  Linnet,  Finch,  and  lordly  Confiance 

Leading  with  Downie's  crew 
The  line.     With   long   booms   swung   to  starboard   they 

heave  to, 

Whistling  their  flock  of  galleys  who  advance 
Behind,  then  toward  the  Yankees,  four  abreast, 

Tack  landward,  west. 
196 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Landward  the  watching  townsfolk  strew  the  shore; 

Mist-banks  of  human  beings  blur  the  bluffs 

And  blacken  the  roofs,  like  swarms  of  roosting  choughs. 

Waiting  the  cannon's  roar 

A  nation  holds  its  breath  for  knell  of  Nevermore 
Or  peal  of  life:  this  hour  shall  cast  the  sloughs 
Of  generations  —  and  one  old  dame's  joy: 

Her  gunner  boy. 

One  moment  on  the  quarter  deck  Jock  kneels 

Beside  his  Commodore  and  fighting  squad. 

Their  heads  are  bowed,  their  prayers  go  up  toward  God  - 

Toward  God,  to  whom  appeals 

Still  rise  in  pain  and  mangling  wrath  from  blind  ordeals 
Of  man,  still  boastful  of  his  brother's  blood.  — 
They  stand  from  prayer.     Swift  comes  and  silently 

The  enemy. 

Macdonough  holds  his  men,  alert,  devout: 
"He  that  wavereth  is  like  a  wave  of  the  sea 
Driven  with  the  wind.     Behold  the  ships,  that  be 

So  great,  are  turned  about 

Even  with  a  little  helm."     Jock  tightens  the  blue  clout 
Around  his  waist,  and  watches  casually 
Close-by  a  game-cock,  in  a  coop,  who  stirs 

And  spreads  his  spurs. 

Now,  bristling  near,  the  British  war-birds  swoop 
Wings,  and  the  Yankee  Eagle  screams  in  fire; 
The  English  Linnet  answers,  aiming  higher, 

And  crash  along  Jock's  poop 

Her  hurtling  shot  of  iron  crackles  the  game-cock's  coop, 

197 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Where,  lo!  the  ribald  cock,  like  a  town  crier 
Strutting  a  gunslide,  flaps  to  the  cheering  crew  — 

Yankee-do  odle-doo! 

Boys  yell,  and  yapping  laughter  fills  the  roar: 

"You  bet  we'll  do  'em!"     "You're  a  prophet,  cocky!" 

"Hooray,  old  rooster!"     "Hip,  hip,  hip!"  cries  Jockie. 

Calmly  the  Commodore 

Touches  his  cannon's  fuse  and  fires  a  twenty-four. 
Smoke    belches    black.     "Huzza!     That's    blowed    'em 

pockey!" 
And  Downie's  men,  like  pins  before  the  bowling, 

Fall  scatter-rolling. 

Boom!  flash  the  long  guns,  echoed  by  the  galleys. 
The  Confiance,  wind-baffled  in  the  bay 
With  both  her  port-bow  anchors  torn  away, 

Flutters,  but  proudly  rallies 

To  broadside,  while  her  gunboats  range  the  water-alleys. 
Then  Downie  grips  Macdonough  in  the  fray, 
And  double-shotted  from  his  roaring  flail 

Hurls  the  black  hail. 

The  hail  turns  red,  and  drips  in  the  hot  gloom. 

Jock  snuffs  the  reek  and  spits  it  from  his  mouth 

And  grapples  with  great  winds.    The  winds  blow  south, 

And  scent  of  lilac  bloom 

Steals  from  his  mother's  porch  in  his  still  sleeping  room. 
Lilacs!     But  now  it  stinks  of  blood  and  drouth! 
He  staggers  up,  and  stares  at  blinding  light: 

"God!     This  is  fight!" 
198 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Fight!     The  sharp  loathing  retches  in  his  loins; 
He  gulps  the  black  air,  like  a  drowner  swimming, 
Where  little  round  suns  in  a  dance  go  rimming 

The  dark  with  golden  coins; 
Round  him  and  round  the  splintering  masts  and  jangled 

quoins 

Reel,  rattling,  and  overhead  he  hears  the  hymning  — 
Lonely  and  loud  —  of  ululating  choirs 

Strangling  with  wires. 

Fight!     But  no  more  the  roll  of  chanting  drums, 
The  fifing  flare,  the  flags,  the  magic  spume 
Filling  his  spirit  with  a  wild  perfume; 

Now  noisome  anguish  numbs 

His  sense,  that  mocks  and  leers  at  monstrous  vacuums. 
Whang!  splits  the  spanker  near  him,  and  the  boom 
Crushes  Macdonough,  in  a  jumbled  wreck, 

Stunned  on  the  deck. 

No  time  to  glance  where  wounded  leaders  lie, 
Or  think  on  fallen  sparrows  in  the  storm  — 
Only  to  fight!     The  prone  commander's  form 

Stirs,  rises  stumblingly, 

And  gropes  where,  under  shrieking  grape  and  musketry, 
Men's  bodies  wamble  like  a  mangled  swarm 
Of  bees.     He  bends  to  sight  his  gun  again, 

Bleeding,  and  then  — 

Oh,  out  of  void  and  old  oblivion 

And  reptile  slime  first  rose  Apollo's  head; 

And  God  in  likeness  of  Himself,  't  is  said, 

Created  such  an  one, 

Now  shaping  Shakespeare's  forehead,  now  Napoleon, 

199 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Various,  by  infinite  invention  bred, 
In  His  own  image  moulding  beautiful 
The  human  skull. 

Jock  lifts  his  head;  Macdonough  sights  his  gun 
To  fire  —  but  in  his  face  a  ball  of  flesh, 
A  whizzing  clod,  has  hurled  him  in  a  mesh 

Of  tangled  rope  and  tun, 

While  still  about  the  deck  the  lubber  clod  is  spun 
And,  bouncing  from  the  rail,  lies  in  a  plesh 
Of  oozing  blood,  upstaring  eyeless,  red  — 

A  gunner's  head. 

Above  the  ships,  enormous  from  the  lake, 
Rises  a  wraith  —  a  phantom  dim  and  gory, 
Lifting  her  wondrous  limbs  of  smoke  and  glory; 

And  little  children  quake 

And  lordly  nations  bow  their  foreheads  for  her  sake, 
And  bards  proclaim  her  in  their  fiery  story; 
And  in  her  phantom  breast,  heartless  unheeding, 

Hearts  —  hearts  are  bleeding. 

IV 

Macdonough  lies  with  Downie  in  one  land. 
Victor  and  vanquished  long  ago  were  peers. 
Held  in  the  grip  of  peace  an  hundred  years, 

England  has  laid  her  hand 

In  ours,  and  we  have  held  (and  still  shall  hold)  the  band 
That  makes  us  brothers  of  the  hemispheres; 
Yea,  still  shall  keep  the  lasting  brotherhood 

Of  law  and  blood. 
200 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Yet  one  whose  terror  racked  us  long  of  yore 
Still  wreaks  upon  the  world  her  lawless  might: 
Out  of  the  deeps  again  the  phantom  Fight 

Looms  on  her  wings  of  war, 

Sowing  in  armed  camps  and  fields  her  venomed  spore, 
Embattling  monarch's  whim  against  man's  right, 
Trampling  with  iron  hoofs  the  blooms  of  time 

Back  in  the  slime. 

We,  who  from  dreams  of  justice,  dearly  wrought, 
First  rose  in  the  eyes  of  patient  Washington, 
And  through  the  molten  heart  of  Lincoln  won 

To  liberty  forgot, 

Now,   standing  lone   in   peace,   'mid   titans   strange  dis 
traught, 

Pray  much  for  patience,  more  —  God's  will  be  done!  — 
For  vision  and  for  power  nobly  to  see 

The  world  made  free. 
The  Outlook  Percy  MacKaye 


75  The  Horse  Thief 

THERE  he  movedj  cropping  the  grass  at  the  purple 
canyon's  lip. 
His  mane  was  mixed  with  the  moonlight  that  silvered 

his  snow-white  side, 
For  the  moon  sailed  out  of  a  cloud  with  the  wake  of  a 

spectral  ship, 

I  crouched  and  I  crawled  on  my  belly,  my  lariat  coil 
looped  wide. 

201 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Dimly  and  dark  the  mesas  broke  on  the  starry  sky. 

A  pall  covered  every  color  of  their  gorgeous  glory  at  noon. 
I  smelt  the  yucca  and  mesquite,  and  stifled  my  heart's 

quick  cry, 

And  wormed   and  crawled  on  my  belly  to  where  he 
moved  against  the  moon! 

Some  Moorish  barb  was  that  mustang's  sire.     His  lines 

were  beyond  all  wonder. 
From  the  prick  of  his  ears  to  the  flow  of  his  tail  he  ached 

in  my  throat  and  eyes. 
Steel  and  velvet  grace!     As  the  prophet  says,  God  had 

"clothed  his  neck  with  thunder." 

Oh,  marvelous  with  the  drifting  cloud  he  drifted  across 
the  skies! 

And  then  I  was  near  at  hand,  —  crouched  and  balanced, 

and  cast  the  coil; 
And  the  moon  was  smothered  in  cloud,  and  the  rope 

through  my  hands  with  a  rip! 
But  somehow  I  gripped  and  clung,  with  the  blood  in  my 

brain  aboil,  — 

With  a  turn  round  the  rugged  tree-stump  there  on  the 
purple  canyon's  lip. 

Right  into  the  stars  he  reared  aloft,  his  red  eye  rolling 

and  raging. 
He  whirled  and  sunfished  and  lashed,  and  rocked   the 

earth  to  thunder  and  flame. 
He  squealed  like  a  regular  devil  horse.     I  was  haggard 

and  spent  and  aging  — 

Roped  clean,  but  almost  storming  clear,  his  fury  too 
fierce  to  tame. 

202 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  I  cursed  myself  for  a  tenderfoot  moon-dazzled  to  play 

the  part, 
But  I  was  doubly  desperate  then,  with  the  posse  pulled 

out  from  town, 
Or  I'd  never  have  tried  it.     I  only  knew  I  must  get  a 

mount  and  start. 

The  filly  had  snapped  her  foreleg  short.     I  had  had  to 
shoot  her  down. 

So  there  he  struggled  and  strangled,  and  I  snubbed  him 

around  the  tree. 
Nearer,    a    little    near  —  hoofs    planted,    and    lolling 

tongue  — 
Till  a  sudden   slack  pitched   me  backward.     He  reared 

right  on  top  of  me. 

Mother  of  God  —  that  moment!     He  missed  me  .  .  . 
and  up  I  swung. 

Somehow,  gone  daft  completely  and  clawing  a  bunch  of 

his  mane, 
As  he  stumbled  and  tripped  in  the  lariat,  there  I  was  — 

up  and  astride. 
And    cursing   for   seven    counties!     And    the    mustang? 

Just  insane! 

Crack-bang!  went  the  rope;  we  cannoned  off  the  tree 
—  then  —  gods,  that  ride! 

A  rocket  —  that's  all,  a  rocket!    I  dug  with  my  teeth  and 

nails. 

Why  we  never  hit  even  the  high  spots  (though  I  hardly 
remember  things), 

203 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

But  I  heard  a  monstrous  booming  like  a  thunder  of  flap 
ping  sails 

When   he   spread  —  well,   call  me   a   liar!  —  when   he 
spread  those  wings,  those  wings! 

So  white  that  my  eyes  were  blinded,  thick-feathered  and 

wide  unfurled, 
They  beat  the  air  into  billows.     We  sailed,  and  the 

earth  was  gone. 

Canyon  and  desert  and  mesa  withered  below,  with  the  world. 
And    then    I    knew   that   mustang;    for   I  —  was    Bel- 
lerophon! 

Yes,  glad  as  the  Greek,  and  mounted  on  a  horse  of  the 

elder  gods, 
With  never  a  magic  bridle  or  a  fountain-mirror  nigh! 

My  chaps  and  spurs  and  holster  must  have  looked  it?    What's 

the  odds? 

I  'd  a  leg  over  lightning  and  thunder,  careering  across 
the  sky! 

And  forever  streaming  before  me,  fanning  my  forehead  cool, 
Flowed  a  mane  of  molten  silver;  and  just  before  my 

thighs 

(As  I  gripped  his  velvet-muscled  ribs,  while  I  cursed  my 
self  for  a  fool), 

The  steady  pulse  of  those  pinions  —  their  wonderful 
fall  and  rise! 

The  bandanna  I  bought  in  Bowie  blew  loose  and  whipped 

from  my  neck. 
My  shirt  was  stuck  to  my  shoulders  and  ribboning  out 

behind. 
204 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  stars  were  dancing,  wheeling  and  glancing,  dipping 

with  smirk  and  beck. 

The  clouds  were  flowing,  dusking  and  glowing.     We 
rode  a  roaring  wind. 

We  soared  through  the  silver  starlight  to  knock  at  the 

planets'  gates. 
New  shimmering  constellations  came  whirling  into  our 

ken. 
Red  stars  and  green  and  golden  swung  out  of  the  void 

that  waits 

For  man's  great  last  adventure;  the  Signs  took  shape  — 
and  then 

I  knew  the  lines  of  that  Centaur  the  moment  I  saw  him 

come! 
The  musical-box  of  the  heavens  all  around  us  rolled  to 

a  tune 
That  tinkled  and  chimed  and  trilled  with  silver  sounds 

that  struck  you  dumb, 

As  if  some  archangel  were  grinding  out  the  music  of 
the  moon. 

Melody-drunk  on  the  Milky  Way,  as  we  swept  and  soared 

hilarious, 
Full  in  our  pathway,  sudden  he  stood  —  the  Centaur 

of  the  Stars, 
Flashing  from  head  and  hoofs  and  breast!     I  knew  him 

for  Sagittarius. 

He  reared,  and  bent  and  drew  his  bow.     He  crouched 
as  a  boxer  spars. 

205 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Flung  back  on   his   haunches,  weird   he  loomed  —  then 

leapt  —  and  the  dim  void  lightened. 
Old  White  Wings  shied  and  swerved  aside,  and  fled 

from  the  splendor-shod. 
Through  a  flashing  welter  of  worlds  we  charged.     I  knew 

why  my  horse  was  frightened. 

He  had  two  faces  —  a  dog's  and  a  man's  —  that  Baby 
lonian  god! 

Also,  he  followed  us  real  as  fear.     Ping!  went  an  arrow 

past. 
My  bronco  buck-jumped,  humping  high.    We  plunged 

...  I  guess  that's  all! 
I  lay  on  the  purple  canyon's  lip,  when  I  opened  my  eyes 

at  last  — 

Stiff  and  sore  and  my  head  like  a  drum,  but  I  broke  no 
bones  in  the  fall. 

So  you  know  —  and  now  you  may  string  me  up.     Such 

was  the  way  you  caught  me. 
Thank  you  for  letting  me  tell  it  straight,  though  you 

never  could  greatly  care. 
For  I  took  a  horse  that  was  n't  mine!  .  .  .  But  there's 

one  the  heavens  brought  me, 

And  I  '11  hang  right  happy,  because  I  know  he  is  wait 
ing  for  me  up  there. 

From  creamy  muzzle  to  cannon-bone,  by  God,  he's  a 

peerless  wonder! 
He  is  steel  and  velvet  and  furnace-fire,   and  death's 

supremest  prize; 
206 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  never  again  shall  be  roped  on  earth  that  neck  that 

is  "clothed  with  thunder"  .  .  . 
String  me  up,  Dave!     Go  dig  my  grave!     /  rode  him 

across  the  skies! 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse          William  Rose  Benet 

76  The  Bird  and  the  Tree 

BLACKBIRD,  blackbird  in  the  cage, 
There's  something  wrong  to-night. 
Far  off  the  sheriff's  footfall  dies, 
The  minutes  crawl  like  last  year's  flies 
Between  the  bars,  and  like  an  age 
The  hours  are  long  to-night. 

The  sky  is  like  a  heavy  lid 

Out  here  beyond  the  door  to-night. 

What's  that?    A  mutter  down  the  street. 

What's  that?    The  sound  of  yells  and  feet. 

For  what  you  did  n't  do  or  did 

You'll  pay  the  score  to-night. 

No  use  to  reek  with  reddened  sweat, 

No  use  to  whimper  and  to  sweat. 

They've  got  the  rope;  they've  got  the  guns, 

They've  got  the  courage  and  the  guns; 

And  that's  the  reason  why  to-night 

No  use  to  ask  them  any  more. 

They'll  fire  the  answer  through  the  door  — 

You're  out  to  die  to-night. 

There  where  the  lonely  cross-road  lies, 
There  is  no  place  to  make  replies; 

207 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

But  silence,  inch  by  inch,  is  there, 
And  the  right  limb  for  a  lynch  is  there; 
And  a  lean  daw  waits  for  both  your  eyes, 
Blackbird. 

Perhaps  you'll  meet  again  some  place. 
Look  for  the  mask  upon  the  face; 
That's  the  way  you'll  know  them  there  — 
A  white  mask  to  hide  the  face. 
And  you  can  halt  and  show  them  there 
The  things  that  they  are  deaf  to  now, 
And  they  can  tell  you  what  they  meant  — 
To  wash  the  blood  with  blood.     But  how 
If  you  are  innocent? 

Blackbird  singer,  blackbird  mute, 
They  choked  the  seed  you  might  have  found. 
Out  of  a  thorny  field  you  go  — 
For  you  it  may  be  better  so  — 
And  leave  the  sowers  of  the  ground 
To  eat  the  harvest  of  the  fruit, 
Blackbird. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Ridgely  Torrence 

77  1777 

I 

The  Trumpet-Vine  Arbor 

THE  throats  of  the  little  red  trumpet-flowers  are  wide 
open, 

And  the  clangor  of  brass  beats  against  the  hot  sunlight. 
They  bray  and  blare  at  the  burning  sky. 
208 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Red!     Red!     Coarse  notes  of  red, 

Trumpeted  at  the  blue  sky. 

In  long  streaks  of  sound,  molten  metal, 

The  vine  declares  itself. 

Clang!  —  from  its  red  and  yellow  trumpets; 

Clang!  —  from  its  long,  nasal  trumpets, 

Splitting  the  sunlight  into  ribbons,  tattered  and  shot  with 

noise. 

I  sit  in  the  cool  arbor,  in  a  green  and  gold  twilight. 
It  is  very  still,  for  I  cannot  hear  the  trumpets, 
I  only  know  that  they  are  red  and  open, 
And  that  the  sun  above  the  arbor  shakes  with  heat. 
My  quill  is  newly  mended, 
And  makes  fine-drawn  lines  with  its  point. 
Down  the  long  white  paper  it  makes  little  lines, 
Just  lines  —  up  —  down  —  criss-cross. 
My  heart  is  strained  out  at  the  pin-point  of  my  quill; 
It  is  thin  and  writhing  like  the  marks  of  the  pen. 
My  hand  marches  to  a  squeaky  tune, 
It  marches  down  the  paper  to  a  squealing  of  fifes. 
My  pen  and  the  trumpet-flowers, 
And  Washington's  armies  away  over  the  smoke-tree  to 

the  southwest. 
"Yankee   Doodle,"   my  darling!     It  is  you  against  the 

British, 
Marching  in   your   ragged   shoes   to   batter   down    King 

George. 

What  have  you  got  in  your  hat?  Not  a  feather,  I  wager. 
Just  a  hay-straw,  for  it  is  the  harvest  you  are  fighting  for. 
Hay  in  your  hat,  and  the  whites  of  their  eyes  for  a  target! 
Like  Bunker  Hill,  two  years  ago,  when  I  watched  all  day 

from  the  housetop, 

209 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Through  Father's  spy-glass, 

The  red  city,  and  the  blue,  bright  water, 

And  puffs  of  smoke  which  you  made 

Twenty  miles  away, 

Round  by  Cambridge,  or  over  the  Neck, 

But  the  smoke  was  white  —  white! 

To-day  the  trumpet-flowers  are  red  —  red  — 

And  I  cannot  see  you  fighting; 

But  old  Mr.  Dimond  has  fled  to  Canada, 

And  Myra  sings  "Yankee  Doodle"  at  her  milking. 

The  red  throats  of  the  trumpets  bray  and  clang  in  the 

sunshine, 
And  the  smoke-tree  puffs  dun  blossoms  into  the  blue  air. 


II 

The  City  of  Falling  Leaves 

Leaves  fall, 
Brown  leaves, 

Yellow  leaves  streaked  with  brown. 
They  fall, 
Flutter, 
Fall  again. 
The  brown  leaves, 
And  the  streaked  yellow  leaves, 
Loosen  on  their  branches 
And  drift  slowly  downwards. 
One, 

One,  two,  three, 
One,  two,  five. 
210 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

All  Venice  is  a  falling  of  autumn  leaves  — 

Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

"That  sonnet,  Abate, 
Beautiful, 

I  am  quite  exhausted  by  it. 
Your  phrases  turn  about  my  heart, 
And  stifle  me  to  swooning. 
Open  the  window,  I  beg. 

Lord!    What  a  strumming  of  fiddles  and  mandolins! 
T  is  really  a  shame  to  stop  indoors. 
Call  my  maid,  or  I  will  make  you  lace  me  yourself. 
Fie,  how  hot  it  is,  not  a  breath  of  air! 
See  how  straight  the  leaves  are  falling. 
Marianna,  I  will  have  the  yellow  satin  caught  up  with 

silver  fringe, 

It  peeps  out  delightfully  from  under  a  mantle. 
Am  I  well  painted  to-day,  caro  Abate  mio? 
You  will  be  proud  of  me  at  the  Ridotto,  hey? 
Proud  of  being  cavaliere  servente  to  such  a  lady?" 
"Can  you  doubt  it,  bellissima  Contessa? 
A  pinch  more  rouge  on  the  right  cheek, 
And  Venus  herself  shines  less  .  .  ." 
"You  bore  me,  Abate, 
I  vow  I  must  change  you! 
A  letter,  Achmet? 

Run  and  look  out  of  the  window,  Abate. 
I  will  read  my  letter  in  peace." 

The  little  black  slave  with  the  yellow  satin  turban 
Gazes  at  his  mistress  with  strained  eyes. 

211 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

His  yellow  turban  and  black  skin 

Are  gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

The  yellow  satin  dress  with  its  silver  flashings 

Lies  on  a  chair, 

Beside  a  black  mantle  and  a  black  mask. 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

The  lady  reads  her  letter, 

And  the  leaves  drift  slowly 

Past  the  long  windows. 

"How  silly  you  look,  my  dear  Abate, 

With  that  great  brown  leaf  in  your  wig. 

Pluck  it  off,  I  beg  you, 

Or  I  shall  die  of  laughing." 

A  yellow  wall, 
Aflare  in  the  sunlight, 
Chequered  with  shadows  — 
Shadows  of  vine-leaves, 
Shadows  of  masks. 

Masks  coming,  printing  themselves  for  an  instant, 
Then  passing  on, 

More  masks  always  replacing  them. 
Masks  with  tricorns  and  rapiers  sticking  out  behind 
Pursuing  masks  with  veils  and  high  heels, 
The  sunlight  shining  under  their  insteps. 
One, 

One,  two, 
One,  two,  three, 

There  is  a  thronging  of  shadows  on  the  hot  wall, 
Filigreed  at  the  top  with  moving  leaves. 
Yellow  sunlight  and  black  shadows, 

212 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Yellow  and  black, 

Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 

Two  masks  stand  together, 

And  the  shadow  of  a  leaf  falls  through  them, 

Marking  the  wall  where  they  are  not. 

From  hat-tip  to  shoulder-tip, 

From  elbow  to  sword-hilt, 

The  leaf  falls. 

The  shadows  mingle, 

Blur  together, 

Slide  along  the  wall  and  disappear. 

Gold  of  mosaics  and  candles, 
And  night-blackness  lurking  in  the  ceiling  beams. 
Saint  Mark's  glitters  with  flames  and  reflections. 
A  cloak  brushes  aside, 
And  the  yellow  of  satin 

Licks  out  over  the  colored  inlays  of  the  pavement. 
Under  the  gold  crucifixes 
There  is  a  meeting  of  hands 
Reaching  from  black  mantles. 
Sighing  embraces,  bold  investigations, 
Hide  in  confessionals, 
Sheltered  by  the  shuffling  of  feet. 
Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 
In  its  mail  of  jewels  and  gold, 

Saint  Mark's  looks  down  at  the  swarm  of  black  masks; 
And  outside  in  the  palace  gardens  brown  leaves  fall, 
Flutter, 
Fall. 
Brown, 
And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 

213 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Blue-black  the  sky  over  Venice, 
With  a  pricking  of  yellow  stars. 
There  is  no  moon, 

And  the  waves  push  darkly  against  the  prow 
Of  the  gondola, 
Coming  from  Malamocco 
And  streaming  toward  Venice. 
It  is  black  under  the  gondola  hood, 
But  the  yellow  of  a  satin  dress 
Glares  out  like  the  eye  of  a  watching  tiger. 
Yellow  compassed  about  with  darkness, 
Yellow  and  black, 
Gorgeous  —  barbaric. 
The  boatman  sings, 
It  is  Tasso  that  he  sings; 

The  lovers  seek  each  other  beneath  their  mantles, 
And  the  gondola  drifts  over  the  lagoon,  aslant  to  the 

coming  dawn. 

But  at  Malamocco  in  front, 
In  Venice  behind, 
Fall  the  leaves, 
Brown, 

And  yellow  streaked  with  brown. 
They  fall, 
Flutter, 
Fall. 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Amy  Lowell 


214 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

78  Letters  from  Egypt 

MEMPHIS  and  Karnak,  Luxor,  Thebes,  the  Nile: 
Of  these  your  letters  told;  and  I  who  read 
Saw  loom  on  dim  horizons  Egypt's  dead 
In  march  across  the  desert,  mile  on  mile, 
A  ghostly  caravan  in  slow  defile 

Between  the  sand  and  stars;  and  at  their  head 
From  unmapped  darkness  into  darkness  fled 
The  gods  that  Egypt  feared  a  little  while. 

There  black  against  the  night  I  saw  them  loom 
With  captive  kings  and  armies  in  array 

Remembered  only  by  their  sculptured  doom, 
And  thought:  What  Egypt  was  are  we  to-day. 

Then  rose  obscure  against  the  rearward  gloom 
The  march  of  empires  yet  to  pass  away. 

The  Poetry  Journal  Louis  V.  Ledoux 

79  In  the  Roman  Forum 

NOTHING  but  beauty,  now. 
No  longer  at  the  point  of  goading  fear 
The  sullen,  tributary  world  comes  near 
Before  all-subjugating  Rome  to  bow. 
No  more  the  pavement  of  the  Forum  rings 
To  breathless  Victory's  exultant  tread 
Before  the  heavy  march  of  captive  kings. 
Here  stood  the  royal  dead 
In  sculptured  immortality,  their  gaze 
Remote  above  the  turmoil  of  the  street 
Hoarse  with  its  living  struggle  at  their  feet. 

215 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Here  spoke  the  law  —  that  voice  of  bronze  was  heard 
By  all  the  world,  and  stirred 
The  latent  mind  of  nations  in  the  bud. 
Bright  with  the  laurels,  bitter  with  the  blood 
Of  heroes  upon  heroes  was  this  place 
Where  the  strong  heart  of  an  imperial  race 
Beat  with  the  essence  of  a  nation's  life. 
Princes  and  people  evermore  at  strife  — 
Incense  and  worship  —  clash  of  armored  rage  — 
Ambition  soaring  up  the  sky  like  flame  — 
Interminable  war  that  mortals  wage 
From  century  to  century  the  same. 
Still  Fortune  holds  the  crown  for  those  who  dare; 
Mankind  in  many  a  distant  otherwhere 
Leaps  panting  toward  the  promise  of  her  face  — 
But  here,  no  more  of  coveting  nor  care. 
No  longer  here  the  weltering  human  tide 
Sluices  the  market-place  and  scatters  wide 
The  weak  as  foam,  to  perish  where  they  list. 
Now  by  the  Sovereign  Silence  purified, 
Spring  showers  all  with  fragrant  amethyst. 
Were  once  these  pulses  violent  and  swift 
As  those  that  shake  the  cities  of  to-day? 
How  indolently  sweet  the  petals  drift 
From  yonder  nodding  spray! 
Warming  their  broidered  raiment  in  the  sun, 
The  little  bright-eye'd  lizards  bask  and  run 
O'er  fallen  temples  gracious  in  decay. 
Man's  arrogance  with  calculated  art 
Boasted  in  marble  —  now  the  quiet  heart 
Of  the  Great  Mother  dreams  eternal  things 
In  brief  bright  roses  and  ethereal  green, 
216 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Or  more  exuberant,  sings 

In  poppies  poured  profusely  to  the  air 

From  secret  hoards  of  scarlet.    Nothing  seen 

But  swoons  with  beauty  —  beauty  everywhere  — 

Nothing  but  beauty  .  .  .  now. 

Here  is  the  immortality  of  Rome. 

Not  where  the  city  rises,  dome  on  dome, 

Seek  we  the  living  soul  of  ancient  might, 

But  in  this  temple  of  green  silence  —  here 

Flame  purer  than  the  vestal  is  alight. 

The  world  again  draws  near 

In  reverence,  but  now  it  comes  to  pay 

The  tribute  of  a  nobler  coin  than  fear. 

In  wondering  worship,  not  in  fierce  dismay, 

Men  bow  the  knee  to  what  of  Rome  remains. 

Time's  long  lustration  has  effaced  her  stains. 

All  that  is  perishable  now  is  past 

And  earth  her  portion  tenderly  transmutes 

To  evanescent  beauty  of  her  own, 

Jubilant  flowers  and  nectar-breathing  fruits  — 

Living  in  deathless  glory  at  the  last 

Divinity  alone. 

The  Bellman  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


80  The  Sin  Eater 


HARK  ye!    Hush  ye!    Margot 's  dead! 
Hush!    Have  done  wi'  your  brawling  tune! 
Danced,  she  did,  till  the  stars  grew  pale; 
Mother  o'  God,  an'  she's  gone  at  noon! 

217 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Sh-h  .  .  .  d'ye  hear  me? —  Margot's  dead! 
Sickened  an'  drooped  an'  died  in  an  hour! 
(Bring  me  th'  milk  an'  th'  meat  an'  bread.) 
Drooped,  she  did,  like  a  wilted  flower. 
Come  an'  look  at  her,  how  she  lies, 
Little  an'  lone,  and  like  she's  scared.  .  .  . 
(She  lost  her  beads  last  Friday  week, 
Tore  her  Book,  an'  she  never  cared.)  .  .  . 
Eh,  my  lass,  but  it's  winter,  now  — 
You  that  ever  was  meant  for  June, 
Your  laughing  mouth  an'  your  dancing  feet  — 
An'  now  you're  done,  like  an  ended  tune. 
Where's  that  woman?    Ah,  give  it  me  quick, 
Food  at  her  head  an'  her  poor,  still  feet.  .  .  . 
There's  plenty,  fool!    D'ye  think  the  wench 
Had  so  many  sins  for  himself  to  eat? 
Take  up  your  cloak  an'  hand  me  mine.  .  .  . 
Are  we  fetchin'  him?    Eh,  for  sure! 
An*  you'll  come  with  me  for  all  your  quakes. 
Clear  to  his  cave  across  the  moor! 
—  Margot,  dearie,  don't  look  so  scared, 
It's  no  long  while  till  your  peace  begins! 
What  if  you  tore  your  Book,  poor  lamb? 
I'm  bringin'  you  one  will  eat  your  sins! 


It's  a  blood-red  sun  that's  sinkin'.  .  .  , 
Ohooo,  but  the  marshland's  drear! 
Woman,  for  why  will  you  be  shrinkin'? 
I'm  tellin'  you  there's  nought  to  fear. 
What  if  the  twilight's  gloomish 
An'  th'  shadows  creep  an'  crawl?  — 
218 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Woman,  woman,  here '11  be  th'  cave! 
Stand  by  me  close  till  I  call! 

"Sin  Eater!    Devil  Cheater!" 

(Eh,  it  echoes  hollowly!) 
"Margot's  dead  at  Willow  Farm! 
Shroud  your  face  and  follow  me!" 

in 

One  o'  th'  clock  .  .  .  two  o'  th'  clock.  .  .  . 
This  night's  a  week  in  span! 
Still  he  crouches  by  her  side.  .  .  . 
Devil  .  .  .  ghost  ...  or  man?  .  .  . 

IV 

Woman,  never  cock's  crow  sounded  sweet  before! 
Set  the  casement  wide  ajar,  fasten  back  the  door! 
Eh,  but  I  be  cold  an'  stiff,  waitin'  for  th'  dawn; 
Fetch  me  flowers  —  jessamine  —  see,  the  food  is  gone.  .  .  . 
Light  enough  to  see  her  now.  .  .  .  Mary!    How  her  face 
Shines  on  us  like  altar  fires,  now  she's  sure  o'  grace! 
Never  mind  your  Book,  my  lamb,  never  mind  your  beads, 
There's  th'  Gleam  before  you  now,  follow  where  it  leads. 

v 

Tearful  peace  and  gentle  grief 
Brood  on  Willow  Farm: 
Margot,  sleeping  in  her  flowers, 
Smiles,  secure  from  harm: 
In  a  cave  across  the  moor, 
Dank  and  dark  within, 
Moans  the  trafficker  in  souls, 
Freshly  bowed  with  sin. 

The  Smart  Set  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

219 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


81  Eye-Witness 

DOWN  by  the  railroad  in  a  green  valley 
By  dancing  water,  there  he  stayed  awhile 
Singing,  and  three  men  with  him,  listeners, 
All  tramps,  all  homeless  reapers  of  the  wind, 
Motionless  now  and  while  the  song  went  on 
Transfigured  into  mages  thronged  with  visions; 
There  with  the  late  light  of  the  sunset  on  them 
And  on  clear  water  spinning  from  a  spring 
Through  little  cones  of  sand  dancing  and  fading, 
Close  beside  pine  woods  where  a  hermit-thrush 
Cast,  when  love  dazzled  him,  shadows  of  music 
That  lengthened,  fluting,  through  the  singer's  pauses 
While  the  sure  earth  rolled  eastward  bringing  stars 
Over  the  singer  and  the  men  that  listened 
There  by  the  roadside,  understanding  all. 

A  train  went  by  but  nothing  seemed  to  be  changed. 
Some  eye  at  a  car  window  must  have  flashed 
From  the  plush  world  inside  the  glassy  Pullman, 
Carelessly  bearing  off  the  scene  for  ever, 
With  idle  wonder  what  the  men  were  doing, 
Seeing  they  were  so  strangely  fixed  and  seeing 
Torn  papers  from  their  smeary  dreary  meal 
Spread  on  the  ground  with  old  tomato  cans 
Muddy  with  dregs  of  lukewarm  chicory, 
Neglected  while  they  listened  to  the  song. 

And  while  he  sang  the  singer's  face  was  lifted, 
And  the  sky  shook  down  a  soft  light  upon  him 

220 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Out  of  its  branches  where  like  fruits  there  were 
Many  beautiful  stars  and  planets  moving, 
With  lands  upon  them,  rising  from  their  seas, 
Glorious  lands  with  glittering  sands  upon  them, 
With  soils  of  gold  and  magic  mould  for  seeding, 
The  shining  loam  of  lands  afoam  with  gardens 
On  mightier  stars  with  giant  rains  and  suns 
There  in  the  heavens;  but  on  none  of  all 
Was  there  ground  better  than  he  stood  upon: 
There  was  no  world  there  in  the  sky  above  him 
Deeper  in  promise  than  the  earth  beneath  him 
Whose  dust  had  flowered  up  in  him  the  singer 
And  three  men  understanding  every  word. 

The  Tramp  Sings: 

I  will  sing,  I  will  go,  and  never  ask  me  "Why?" 
I  was  born  a  rover  and  a  passer-by. 

I  seem  to  myself  like  water  and  sky, 
A  river  and  a  rover  and  a  passer-by. 

But  in  the  winter  three  years  back 
We  lit  us  a  night  fire  by  the  track, 

And  the  snow  came  up  and  the  fire  it  flew 

And  we  could  n't  find  the  warming  room  for  two. 

One  had  to  suffer,  so  I  left  him  the  fire 

And  I  went  to  the  weather  from  my  heart's  desire. 

It  was  night  on  the  line,  it  was  no  more  fire, 
But  the  zero  whistle  through  the  icy  wire. 

221 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

As  I  went  suffering  through  the  snow 
Something  like  a  shadow  came  moving  slow. 

I  went  up  to  it  and  I  said  a  word; 
Something  flew  above  it  like  a  kind  of  bird. 

I  leaned  in  closer  and  I  saw  a  face; 

A  light  went  round  me  but  I  kept  my  place. 

My  heart  went  open  like  an  apple  sliced; 
I  saw  my  Saviour  and  I  saw  my  Christ. 

Well,  you  may  not  read  it  in  a  book, 

But  it  takes  a  gentle  Saviour  to  give  a  gentle  look. 

I  looked  in  his  eyes  and  I  read  the  news; 
His  heart  was  having  the  railroad  blues. 

Oh,  the  railroad  blues  will  cost  you  dear, 
Keeps  you  moving  on  for  something  that  you  don't  see 
here. 

We  stood  and  whispered  in  a  kind  of  moon; 
The  line  was  looking  like  May  and  June. 

I  found  he  was  a  roamer  and  a  journey  man, 
Looking  for  a  lodging  since  the  night  began. 

He  went  to  the  doors  but  he  did  n't  have  the  pay, 
He  went  to  the  windows,  then  he  went  away. 

Says:  "We'll  walk  together  and  we'll  both  be  fed," 
Says:  "I  will  give  you  the  'other'  bread." 

222 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Oh,  the  bread  he  gave  and  without  money! 

0  drink,  O  fire,  O  burning  honey! 

It  went  all  through  me  like  a  shining  storm: 

1  saw  inside  me,  it  was  light  and  warm. 

I  saw  deep  under  and  I  saw  above, 

I  saw  the  stars  weighed  down  with  love. 

They  sang  that  love  to  burning  birth, 
They  poured  that  music  to  the  earth. 

I  heard  the  stars  sing  low  like  mothers. 
He  said:  "Now  look,  and  help  feed  others." 

I  looked  around,  and  as  close  as  touch 
Was  everybody  that  suffered  much. 

They  reached  out,  there  was  darkness  only; 
They  could  not  see  us,  they  were  lonely. 

I  saw  the  hearts  that  deaths  took  hold  of, 
With  the  wounds  bare  that  were  not  told  of; 

Hearts  with  things  in  them  making  gashes; 
Hearts  that  were  choked  with  their  dreams'  ashes; 

Women  in  front  of  the  rolled-back  air, 
Looking  at  their  breasts  and  nothing  there; 

Good  men  wasting  and  trapped  in  hells; 
Hurt  lads  shivering  with  the  fare-thee-wells. 

223 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

I  saw  them  as  if  something  bound  them; 

I  stood  there  but  my  heart  went  round  them. 

I  begged  him  not  to  let  me  see  them  wasted. 
Says:  "Tell  them  then  what  you  have  tasted." 

Told  him  I  was  weak  as  a  rained-on  bee; 
Told  him  I  was  lost.  —  Says:  "Lean  on  me." 

Something  happened  then  I  could  not  tell, 
But  I  knew  I  had  the  water  for  every  hell. 

Any  other  thing  it  was  no  use  bringing; 
They  needed  what  the  stars  were  singing, 

What  the  whole  sky  sang  like  waves  of  light, 
The  tune  that  it  danced  to,  day  and  night. 

Oh,  I  listened  to  the  sky  for  the  tune  to  come; 
The  song  seemed  easy,  but  I  stood  there  dumb. 

The  stars  could  feel  me  reaching  through  them; 
They  let  down  light  and  drew  me  to  them. 

I  stood  in  the  sky  in  a  light  like  day, 
Drinking  in  the  words  that  all  things  say 

Where  the  worlds  hang  growing  in  clustered  shapes 
Dripping  the  music  like  wine  from  grapes. 

With  "Love,  Love,  Love,"  above  the  pain, 
—  The  vine-like  song  with  its  wine-like  rain. 
224 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Through  heaven  under  heaven  the  song  takes  root 
Of  the  turning,  burning,  deathless  fruit. 

I  came  to  the  earth  and  the  pain  so  near  me, 
I  tried  that  song  but  they  could  n't  hear  me. 

I  went  down  into  the  ground  to  grow, 

A  seed  for  a  song  that  would  make  men  know. 

Into  the  ground  from  my  Reamer's  light 
I  went;  he  watched  me  sink  to  night. 

Deep  in  the  ground  from  my  human  grieving, 
His  pain  ploughed  in  me  to  believing. 

Oh,  he  took  earth's  pain  to  be  his  bride, 
While  the  heart  of  life  sang  in  his  side. 

For  I  felt  that  pain,  I  took  its  kiss, 
My  heart  broke  into  dust  with  his. 

Then  sudden  through  the  earth  I  found  life  springing; 
The  dust  men  trampled  on  was  singing. 

Deep  in  my  dust  I  felt  its  tones; 

The  roots  of  beauty  went  round  my  bones. 

I  stirred,  I  rose  like  a  flame,  like  a  river, 
I  stood  on  the  line,  I  could  sing  for  ever. 

Love  had  pierced  into  my  human  sheathing, 
Song  came  out  of  me  simple  as  breathing. 

225 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

A  freight  came  by,  the  line  grew  colder. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder. 

Says,  "Don't  stay  on  the  line  such  nights," 
And  led  me  by  the  hand  to  the  station  lights. 

I  asked  him  in  front  of  the  station-house  wall 
If  he  had  lodging.     Says:  "None  at  all." 

I  pointed  to  my  heart  and  looked  in  his  face.  — 
"Here,  —  if  you  have  n't  got  a  better  place." 

He  looked  and  he  said:  "Oh,  we  still  must  roam 
But  if  you'll  keep  it  open,  well,  I'll  call  it  'home.'" 

The  thrush  now  slept  whose  pillow  was  his  wing. 
So  the  song  ended  and  the  four  remained 
Still  in  the  faint  starshine  that  silvered  them, 
While  the  low  sound  went  on  of  broken  water 
Out  of  the  spring  and  through  the  darkness  flowing 
Over  a  stone  that  held  it  from  the  sea. 
Whether  the  men  spoke  after  could  not  be  told, 
A  mist  from  the  ground  so  veiled  them,  but  they  waited 
A  little  longer  till  the  moon  came  up; 
Then  on  the  gilded  track  leading  to  the  mountains, 
Against  the  moon  they  faded  in  common  gold 
And  earth  bore  East  with  all  toward  the  new  morning. 
Scribner's  Magazine  Ridgely  Torrence 


226 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

82  The  Gift  of  Cod 

BLESSED  with  a  joy  that  only  she         * 
Of  all  alive  shall  ever  know, 
She  wears  a  proud  humility 
For  what  it  was  that  willed  it  so,  — 
That  her  degree  should  be  so  great 
Among  the  favored  of  the  Lord 
That  she  may  scarcely  bear  the  weight 
Of  her  bewildering  reward. 

As  one  apart,  immune,  alone, 
Or  featured  for  the  shining  ones, 
And  like  to  none  that  she  has  known 
Of  other  women's  other  sons,  — 
The  firm  fruition  of  her  need, 
He  shines  anointed;  and  he  blurs 
Her  vision,  till  it  seems  indeed 
A  sacrilege  to  call  him  hers. 

She  fears  a  little  for  so  much 
Of  what  is  best,  and  hardly  dares 
To  think  of  him  as  one  to  touch 
With  aches,  indignities,  and  cares; 
She  sees  him  rather  at  the  goal, 
Still  shining;  and  her  dream  foretells 
The  proper  shining  of  a  soul 
Where  nothing  ordinary  dwells. 

Perchance  a  canvass  of  the  town 
Would  find  him  far  from  flags  and  shouts, 
And  leave  him  only  the  renown 
Of  many  smiles  and  many  doubts; 

227 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Perchance  the  crude  and  common  tongue 
Would  havoc  strangely  with  his  worth; 
But  she,  with  innocence  unwrung, 
Would  read  his  name  around  the  earth. 

And  others,  knowing  how  this  youth 
Would  shine,  if  love  could  make  him  great, 
When  caught  and  tortured  for  the  truth 
Would  only  writhe  and  hesitate; 
While  she,  arranging  for  his  days 
What  centuries  could  not  fulfil, 
Transmutes  him  with  her  faith  and  praise, 
And  has  him  shining  where  she  will. 

She  crowns  him  with  her  gratefulness, 
And  says  again  that  life  is  good; 
And  should  the  gift  of  God  be  less 
In  him  than  in  her  motherhood, 
His  fame,  though  vague,  will  not  be  small, 
As  upward  through  her  dream  he  fares, 
Half  clouded  with  a  crimson  fall 
Of  roses  thrown  on  marble  stairs. 
Scribner's  Magazine  Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 


83  Meanwhile 

THE  August  sun  had  still  two  hours  of  sky 
When  the  white  flag  a-flutter  from  the  house 
Signalled  him  in  to  find  his  wife  at  watch 
At  the  boy's  bed.    He  laid  his  calloused  hand 
Lightly  on  that  soft  face  now  fever  flushed. 
"Much  worse,"  she  said. 
228. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Yes,  much  worse.    I'll  ride  Jeff 
Cross-country,  try  to  borrow  a  saddle  horse 
At  Campbell's.    If  the  doctor  is  at  home  — 
Get  there  by  one,  to-night,  and  home  again 
In  the  morning,  maybe  eight,  at  most  by  nine." 
His  rough  lips  touched  the  boy  who  moaned  and  stirred. 

The  sweating  plough-horse  changed  from  jolting  trot 

To  clumsy  gallop,  soon  was  winded,  fell 

Back  to  a  walk,  gained  breath  and  galloped  on. 

At  Campbell's  ranch  few  words.    They  learned  his  need, 

Saddled  the  pony,  promised  to  relay 

The  doctor's  team  in  the  morning.    It  was  ride. 

When  sunset  came  the  man  was  galloping 

On  gentle  prairie.    Soon  he  dropped  from  the  ridge, 

Picking  a  way  down  canyon  banks  to  follow 

In  the  chill  dusk  of  the  draw  a  winding  mile; 

Then  stiff  ascent  and  upland  track.    The  sky 

Afar  off  held  its  tender  sunset  hues, 

Slow  fading.    One  by  one  the  big  white  stars 

Budded  and  blossomed.    Sometimes  prairie  owls 

Gave  chuckling  notes  and  made  dim  fluttering. 

The  balm  of  cooling  dews  healed  all  the  air, 

And  ripening  grass  was  fragrant,  and  late  flowers, 

While  from  the  wheeling  stars  a  gentle  glow 

Fell  on  the  prairies  like  a  luminous  veil. 

The  vast  plain's  prayer  was  answered  utterly. 

As  the  dusk  gathered  in  the  little  room 
The  woman  still  could  see  the  pillow  white, 
And  the  child's  tousled  hair  in  outline  dark 
About  his  face.    He  broke  from  out  his  sleep 
Babbling  of  strange  wild  fancies;  hardly  knew 

.229 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

At  times,  his  name,  her  kindness.    Lest  the  dark 
Loose  more  disorder  in  his  wits,  she  brought 
A  lighted  lamp  and  sang  old  ballad  songs 
In  a  soft  voice  that  won  him  ease  again, 
And  quiet  breathings.     She  could  hear  the  clock 
Lag  noisily,  and  from  the  distant  draws 
The  shrill  wail  of  the  coyote,  and  close  by 
The  creaking  misery  of  some  cricket-thing. 
Minutes  seemed  hours.     She  would  try  to  read. 
She  got  her  Bible,  but  the  tears  came  fast. 
Try  praying:  surely  there  is  help  in  prayer 
That  the  boy  should  recover,  that  her  man 
Might  find  the  doctor  ready.     She  can  see 
As  in  a  living  vision  the  sunshine, 
The  doctor's  rattling  buggy  racing  up 
In  time. 

In  time?    Thus  praying,  a  slight  noise 
Led  her  eyes  to  the  door.    She  saw  it  move, 
Open,  and  a  strange,  dirty  face  looked  in 
Bristling  with  thickets  of  wild,  brush-like  beard. 
How  her  heart  did  beat!    She  did  not  rise  nor  scream, 
But  with  a  finger  at  her  lip,  said,  "Hush. 
My  boy  is  sick,  out  of  his  head,  indeed, 
And  must  not  see  you.    It  might  make  him  die. 
So  leave  us.    Maybe  you  are  hungry.    Look 
In  the  cupboard,  you  will  find  some  bread  and  meat, 
And  coffee  on  the  stove.    Go,  wash  and  eat." 
Came  a  low  "Thank  ye,"  and  the  door  went  shut. 
She  turned  to  where  the  clock  hands  pointed  ten. 
There  would  be  minutes  while  the  tramp  would  eat,  — 
This  outcast  fifty  miles  from  the  grading  camps 
230 


.  OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Meant  anything.    She  could  not  think  nor  move, 
A  chill  so  numbed  her,  weakening  every  pulse. 
But  something  somehow  steadied  all  her  tone 
When  the  door  opened  once  more,  and  the  voice 
Asked,  "Is  there  only  you?" 

"My  husband  's  gone 

For  the  doctor,  and  should  be  here  even  now. 
Hush,  the  boy's  waking.    Go  to  the  pump,  and  bring 
Cold  water  for  the  headcloths.     Put  the  bucket 
Upon  the  table.     In  the  shed  you  will  find 
Fresh  hay  and  blankets." 

He  was  gone.    Once  more 
The  sweet  voice  crooning  low  the  ballad  tune 
Without  a  tremble  or  any  sign  of  fear 
Mastered  the  boy's  wild  fancies,  brought  him  rest. 
She  listened  to  the  clock,  and  hours  went  by;    * 
She  looked  out  to  the  stars,  and  hours  went  by; 
At  last  a  grayness,  light  grew,  dawn  increased,  — 
In  two  more  hours.    At  nine  o'clock  they  came 
In  time  and  happily. 

How  like  a  tale, 

Or  a  heart-breaking  dream  the  afterwards! 
But  while  death's  presence  from  the  noiseless  dark 
Saturates  all  the  air  of  some  child's  room 
Where  the  mother  prays  for  one  more  breath  un 
harmed  — 

Meanwhile  —  how  measure  her  agony  of  fear? 
How  ease  the  watching  of  her  wide-stretched  eyes? 

Edwin  Ford  Piper 
The  Midland:  A  Magazine  of  the  Middle  West 

231 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY. 


84  Grieve  not,  Ladies 

OH,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 
Ye  wake  to  feel  your  beauty  going. 
It  was  a  web  of  frail  delight, 
Inconstant  as  an  April  snowing. 

In  other  eyes,  in  other  lands, 

In  deep  fair  pools,  new  beauty  lingers, 

But  like  spent  water  in  your  hands 
It  runs  from  your  reluctant  fingers. 

Ye  shall  not  keep  the  singing  lark 
That  owes  to  earlier  skies  its  duty. 

Weep  not  to  hear  along  the  dark 

The  sound  of  your  departing  beauty. 

The  fine  and  anguished  ear  of  night 
Is  tuned  to  hear  the  smallest  sorrow. 

Oh,  wait  until  the  morning  light! 
It  may  not  seem  so  gone  to-morrow! 

But  honey-pale  and  rosy-red! 

Brief  lights  that  made  a  little  shining! 
Beautiful  looks  about  us  shed  — 

They  leave  us  to  the  old  repining. 

Think  not  the  watchful  dim  despair 

Has  come  to  you  the  first,  sweet-hearted! 

For  oh,  the  gold  in  Helen's  hair! 
And  how  she  cried  when  that  departed! 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Perhaps  that  one  that  took  the  most, 
The  swiftest  borrower,  wildest  spender, 

May  count,  as  we  would  not,  the  cost  — 
And  grow  more  true  to  us  and  tender. 

Happy  are  we  if  in  his  eyes 

We  see  no  shadow  of  forgetting. 
Nay  —  if  our  star  sinks  in  those  skies 

We  shall  not  wholly  see  its  setting. 

Then  let  us  laugh  as  do  the  brooks 
That  such  immortal  youth  is  ours, 

If  memory  keeps  for  them  our  looks 
As  fresh  as  are  the  spring-time  flowers. 

Oh,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 

Ye  wake,  to  feel  the  cold  December! 
Rather  recall  the  early  light 

And  in  your  loved  one's  arms,  remember. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


85  Cool  Tombs 

WHEN  Abraham  Lincoln  was  shoveled  into  the  tombs 
he  forgot  the  copperheads  and  the  assassin  ...  in 
the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs. 

And  Ulysses  Grant  lost  all  thought  of  con  men  and 
Wall  Street,  cash  and  collateral  turned  ashes  ...  in  the 
dust,  in  the  cool  tombs. 

Pocahontas'  body,  lovely  as  a  poplar,  sweet  as  a  red 
haw  in  November  or  a  paw-paw  in  May,  did  she  wonder, 
does  she  remember?  ...  in  the  dust,  in  the  cool  tombs? 

233 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Take  any  streetful  of  people  buying  clothes  and  grocer 
ies,  cheering  a  hero  or  throwing  confetti  and  blowing  tin 
horns  .  .  .  tell  me  if  the  lovers  are  losers  .  .  .  tell  me 
if  any  get  more  than  lovers  ...  in  the  dust  ...  in  the 
cool  tombs. 

The  Craftsman  Carl  Sandburg 


86    Memories  of  Whitman  and  Lincoln 

"When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloomed." —  W.  W. 

LILACS  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 
Spring  hangs  in  the  dew  of  the  dooryards 
These  memories  —  these  memories  — 
They  hang  in  the  dew  for  the  bard  who  fetched 
A  sprig  of  them  once  for  his  brother 
When  he  lay  cold  and  dead.  .  .  . 
And  forever  now  when  America  leans  in  the  dooryard 
And  over  the  hills  Spring  dances, 
Smell  of  lilacs  and  sight  of  lilacs  shall  bring  to  her  heart 

these  brothers.  .  .  . 
Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 


Who  are  the  shadow-forms  crowding  the  the  night? 
What  shadows  of  men? 

The  still  star-night  is  high  with  these  brooding  spirits  — 
Their  shoulders  rise  on  the  Earth-rim,  and  they  are  great 

presences  in  heaven  — 

234 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

They  move  through  the  stars  like  outlined  winds  in  young- 
leaved  maples. 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 
Deeply  the  nation  throbs  with  a  world's  anguish  — 

But  it  sleeps,  and  I  on  the  housetops 

Commune  with  souls  long  dead  who  guard  our  land  at 
midnight, 

A  strength  in  each  hushed  heart  — 

I  seem  to  hear  the  Atlantic  moaning  on  our  shores  with 
the  plaint  of  the  dying 

And  rolling  on  our  shores  with  the  rumble  of  battle.  .  .  . 

I  seem  to  see  my  country  growing  golden  toward  California, 

And,  as  fields  of  daisies,  a  people,  with,  slumbering  up 
turned  faces 

Leaned  over  by  Two  Brothers, 

And  the  greatness  that  is  gone. 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Spring  runs  over  the  land, 

A  young  girl,  light-footed,  eager  .  .  . 

For  I  hear  a  song  that  is  faint  and  sweet  with  first  love, 

Out  of  the  West,  fresh  with  the  grass  and  the  timber, 

But  dreamily  soothing  the  sleepers.  .  .  . 

I  listen:  I  drink  it  deep. 

Softly  the  Spring  sings, 
Softly  and  clearly: 

235 


pt 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"  /  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved. 
Lilacs  for  the  lost,  the  dead. 

And,  see,  for  the  living,  I  bring  sweet  strawberry  blossoms, 
And  I  bring  buttercups,  and  I  bring  to  the  woods  anemones 

and  blue  bells  .  .  . 
I  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved, 

And  when  my  fluttering  garment  drifts  through  dusty  cities, 
And  blows  on  hills,  and  brushes  the  inland  sea, 
Over  you,  sleepers,  over  you,  tired  sleepers, 
A  fragrant  memory  falls  .  .  . 
I  open  love  in  the  shut  heart, 
I  open  lilacs  for  the  beloved." 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

Was  that  the  Spring  that  sang,  opening  locked  hearts, 

And  is  remembrance  mine? 

For  I  know  these  two  great  shadows  in  the  spacious  night, 

Shadows  folding  America  close  between  them, 

Close  to  the  heart  .  .  . 

And  I  know  how  my  own  lost  youth  grew  up  blessedly  in 

their  spirit, 

And  how  the  morning  song  of  the  mighty  native  bard 
Sent  me  out  from  my  dreams  to  the  living  America, 
To  the  chanting  seas,  to  the  piney  hills,  down  the  railroad 

vistas, 
Out  into  the  streets  of  Manhattan  when  the  whistles  blew 

at  seven, 
Down  to  the  mills  of  Pittsburgh  and  the  rude  faces  of 

labor  .  .  . 

236 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  I  know  how  the  grave  great  music  of  that  other, 

Music  in  which  lost  armies  sang  requiems, 

And  the  vision  of  that  gaunt,  that  great  and  solemn  figure, 

And  the  graven  face,  the  deep  eyes,  the  mouth, 

O  human-hearted  brother, 

Dedicated  anew  my  undevoted  heart 

To  America,  my  land. 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 


Now  in  this  hour  I  was  suppliant  to  these  two  brothers, 

And  I  said:     Your  land  has  need: 

Half-awakened     and     blindly    we    grope    in    the    great 

world.   .   .   . 
What  strength  may  we  take  from  our  Past,  what  promise 

hold  for  our  Future  ? 

And  the  one  brother  leaned  and  whispered: 

"I  put  my  strength  in  a  book, 

And  in  that  book  my  love.  .  .  . 

This,  with  my  love,  I  give  to  America.  .  .  ." 

And  the  other  brother  leaned  and  murmured: 

"I  put  my  strength  in  a  life, 

And. in  that  life  my  love, 

This,  with  my  love,  I  give  to  America." 

Lilacs  bloom  for  Walt  \Vhitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 


237 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Then   my  heart  sang  out:  This   strength   shall   be  our 

strength : 
Yea,  when  the  great  hour  comes,  and  the  sleepers  wake 

and  are  hurled  back, 
And  creep  down  into  themselves 
There  shall  they  find  Walt  Whitman 
And  there,  Abraham  Lincoln. 

O  Spring,  go  over  this  land  with  much  singing 

And  open  the  lilacs  everywhere, 

Open  them  out  with  the  old-time  fragrance 

Making   a    people   remember   that   something   has   been 

forgotten, 
Something  is  hidden  deep  —  strange  memories  —  strange 

memories  — 

Of  him  that  brought  a  sprig  of  the  purple  cluster 
To  him  that  was  mourned  of  all.  .  .  . 
And  so  they  are  linked  together 
While  yet  America  lives.  .  .  . 

While  yet  America  lives,  my  heart, 
Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman 
And  lilacs  for  Abraham  Lincoln. 

The  Seven  Arts  James  Oppenheim 


87  Autochthon 

Ea  rude  country  some  four  thousand  miles 
7rom  Charles'  and  Alfred's  birthplace  you  were  born, 
In  the  same  year.     But  Charles  and  you  were  born 
On  the  same  day,  and  Alfred  six  months  later. 
238 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Thus  start  you  in  a  sense  the  race  together.  .  .  . 

Charles  goes  to  Edinburgh,  afterwards 

His  father  picks  him  for  the  ministry, 

And  sends  him  off  to  Cambridge  where  he  spends 

His  time  on  beetles  and  geology, 

Neglects  theology.     Alfred  is  here 

Fondling  a  Virgil  and  a  Horace. 

But  you  —  these  years  you  give  to  reading  JEsop, 

The  Bible,  lives  of  Washington  and  Franklin, 

And  Kirkham's  grammar. 

In  1830  Alfred  prints  a  book 

Containing  "Mariana,"  certain  other 

Delicate,  wind-blown  bells  of  airy  music. 

And  in  this  year  you  move  from  Indiana 

And  settle  near  Decatur,  Illinois, 

Hard  by  the  river  Sangamon  where  fever 

And  ague  burned  and  shook  the  poor 

Swamp  saffron  creatures  of  that  desolate  land. 

While  Alfred  walks  the  flowering  lanes  of  England, 

And  reads  Theocritus  to  the  song  of  larks 

You  clear  the  forests,  plow  the  stumpy  land, 

Fight  off  the  torments  of  mosquitoes,  flies 

And  study  Kirkham's  grammar. 

In  1831  Charles  takes  a  trip 

Around  the  world,  sees  South  America, 

And  studies  living  things  in  Galapagos, 

Tahiti,  Keeling  Island  and  Tasmania. 

In  1831  you  take  a  trip 

Upon  a  flat-boat  down  to  New  Orleans 

239 


p 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Through  hardships  scarcely  less  than  Joliet 

And  Marquette  knew  in  1673, 

Return  on  foot  to  Orfutt's  store  at  Salem. 

By  this  time  Jacques  Rousseau  was  canonized; 

Jefferson  dead  but  seven  years  or  so; 

Brook  Farm  was  budding,  Garrison  had  started 

His  Liberator,  Fourier  still  alive; 

And  Emerson  was  preening  his  slim  wings 

For  flights  into  broad  spaces  —  there  was  stir 

Enough  to  sweep  the  Shelleyan  heads,  —  in  truth 

Shelley  was  scarcely  passed  a  decade  then. 

Old  Goodwin  still  .was  writing,  wars  for  freedom 

Swept  through  the  Grecian  Isles,  America 

Had  "isms"  in  abundance,  but  not  one 

Took  hold  of  you. 

In  1832  Alfred  has  drawn 
Out  of  old  Mallory  and  Grecian  myths 
The  "Lady  of  Shalott"  and  fair  "CEnone," 
And  put  them  into  verse. 

This  is  the  year  you  fight  the  Black  Hawk  war, 
And  issue  an  address  to  Sangamon's  people. 
You  are  but  twenty-three,  yet  this  address 
Would  not  shame  Charles  or  Alfred;  it's  restrained, 
And  sanely  balanced,  without  extra  words, 
Or  youth's  conceits,  or  imitative  figures,  dreams 
Or  "isms"  of  the  day.     No,  here  you  hope 
That  enterprise,  morality,  sobriety 
May  be  more  general,  and  speak  a  word 
For  popular  education,  so  that  all 
May  have  a  "moderate  education"  as  you  say. 
240 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

You  make  a  plea  for  railroads  and  canals, 

And  ask  the  suffrages  of  the  people,  saying 

You  have  known  disappointment  far  too  much 

To  be  chagrined  at  failure,  if  you  lose. 

They  take  you  at  your  word  and  send  another 

To  represent  them  in  the  Legislature. 

Then  you  decide  to  learn  the  blacksmith's  trade. 

But  Fate  comes  by  and  plucks  you  by  the  sleeve, 

And  changes  history,  doubtless. 

By  '36  when  Charles  returns  to  England 

You  have  become  a  legislator;  yes 

You  tried  again  and  won.     You  have  become 

A  lawyer  too,  by  working  through  the  levels 

Of  laborer,  store-keeper  and  surveyor, 

Wrapped  up  in  problems  of  geometry, 

And  Kirkham's  grammar  and  Sir  William  Blackstone, 

And  Coke  on  Littleton,  and  Joseph  Chitty. 

Brook  Farm  will  soon  bloom  forth,  Francois  Fourier 

Is  still  on  earth,  and  Garrison  is  shaking 

Terrible  lightning  at  Slavocracy. 

And  certain  libertarians,  videlicet 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier  and  others,  sing 

The  trampling  out  of  grapes  of  wrath;  in  truth 

The  Hebrews  taught  the  idealist  how  to  sing 

Destruction  in  the  name  of  God  and  curse 

\Vhere  strength  was  lacking  for  the  sword  —  but  you 

Are  not  a  Robert  Emmet,  or  a  Shelley, 

Have  no  false  dreams  of  dying  to  bring  in 

The  day  of  Liberty.     At  twenty-three 

You're  measuring  the  world  and  waiting  for 

Dawn's  mists  to  clear  that  you  may  measure  it, 

241 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  know  the  field's  dimensions  ere  you  put 
Your  handle  to  the  plow. 

In  1833  a  man  named  Hallam, 

A  friend  of  Alfred's  died  at  twenty-two. 

Thereafter  Alfred  worked  his  hopes  and  fears 

Upon  the  dark  impasto  of  this  loss 

In  delicate  colors.     And  in  1850 

When  you  were  sunk  in  melancholia, 

As  one  of  no  use  in  the  world,  adjudged 

To  be  of  no  use  by  your  time  and  place, 

Alfred  brought  forth  his  Dante  dream  of  life, 

Received  the  laureate  wreath  and  settled  down 

With  a  fair  wife  amid  entrancing  richness 

Of  sunny  seas  and  silken  sails  and  dreams 

Of  Araby, 

And  ivied  halls,  and  meadows  where  the  breeze 

Of  temperate  England  blows  the  hurrying  cloud. 

There,  seated  like  an  Oriental  king 

In  silk  and  linen  clothed  took  the  acclaim 

Of  England  and  the  world!  .  .  . 

This  is  the  year 

You  sit  in  a  little  office  there  in  Springfield, 
Feet  on  the  desk  and  brood.     What  are  you  thinking? 
You're  forty-one;  around  you  spears  are  whacking 
The  wind-mills  of  the  day,  you  watch  and  weigh. 
The  sun-light  of  your  mind  quivers  about 
The  darkness  every  thinking  soul  must  know, 
And  lights  up  hidden  things  behind  the  door, 
And  in  dark  corners.     You  have  fathomed  much, 
Weighed  life  and  men.     O  what  a  sphered  brain, 
Strong  nerved,  fresh  blooded,  firm  in  plasmic  fire, 
242 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  ready  for  a  task,  if  there  be  one! 

That  is  the  question  that  makes  brooding  thought: 

For  you  know  well  men  come  into  the  world 

And  find  no  task,  and  die,  and  are  not  known  — 

Great  sphered  brains  gone  into  dust  again, 

Their  light  under  a  bushel  all  their  days! 

In  1859,  Charles  publishes 

His  "Origin  of  Species,"  and  't  is  said 

You  see  it,  or  at  least  hear  what  it  is. 

Out  of  three  travelers  in  a  distant  land 

One  writes  a  book  of  what  the  three  have  seen. 

Perhaps  you  never  read  much,  yet  perhaps 

Some  books  were  just  a  record  of  your  mind. 

How  had  it  helped  you  in  your  work  to  read 

The  "Idylls  of  the  King"?     As  much,  perhaps, 

Had  Alfred  read  the  Northwest  Ordinance 

Of  1787.  .  .  . 

But  in  this  year 

Of '59  you're  sunk  in  blackest  thought 
About  the  country  maybe,  but,  I  think, 
About  this  riddle  of  our  mortal  life. 
You  were  a  poet,  Abraham,  from  your  birth. 
That  makes  you  think,  and  makes  you  deal  at  last 
With  things  material  to  the  tune  of  laws 
Moving  in  higher  spaces  when  you're  called 
To  act  —  and  show  a  poet  moulding  stuff 
Too  tough  for  spirits  practical  to  mould. 
Here  are  you  with  your  feet  upon  the  desk. 
You  have  been  beaten  in  a  cause  which  kept 
Some  strings  too  loose  to  catch  the  vibrate  waves 
Of  a  great  Harp  whose  music  you  have  sensed. 

243 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

You  are  a  mathematician  using  symbols 

Like  Justice,  Truth,  with  keenness  to  perceive 

Disturbance  of  equations,  a  logician 

Who  sees  invariable  laws,  and  beauty  born 

Of  finding  out  and  following  the  laws. 

You  are  a  Plato  brooding  there  in  Springfield. 

You  are  a  poet  with  a  voice  for  Truth, 

And  never  to  be  claimed  by  visionaries 

Who  chant  the  theme  of  bread  and  bread  alone. 

But  here  and  now 

They  want  you  not  for  Senator,  it  seems. 
You  have  been  tossed  to  one  side  by  the  rush 
Of  world  events,  left  stranded  and  alone, 
And  fitted  for  no  use,  it  seems,  in  Springfield. 
A  country  lawyer  with  a  solid  logic, 
And  gift  of  prudent  phrase  which  has  a  way 
Of  hardening  under  time  to  rock  as  hard 
As  the  enduring  thought  you  seal  it  with. 
You've  reached  your  fiftieth  year,  your  occultation 
Should  pass.     If  ever,  we  should  see  a  light: 
In  all  your  life  you  have  not  seen  a  city. 
But  now  our  Springfield  giant  strides  Broadway, 
Thrills  William  Cullen  Bryant,  sets  a  wonder 
Going  about  the  East,  that  Kirkham's  grammar 
Can  give  a  man  such  speech  at  Cooper  Union, 
Which  even  Alfred's,  trained  to  Virgil's  style, 
Cannot  disdain  for  matching  in  the  thought 
With  faultless  clearness. 

And  still  in  1860  all  the  Brahmins 
Have  fear  to  give  you  power. 
You  are  a  backwoodsman,  a  country  lawyer 
244 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Unlettered  in  the  difficult  art  of  states. 

A  denizen  of  a  squalid  western  town, 

Dowered  with  a  knack  of  argument  alone, 

Which  wakes  the  country  school-house,  and  may  lift 

Its  devotees  to  Congress  by  good  fortune. 

But  then  at  Cooper  Union  intuitive  eyes 

Had  measured  your  tall  frame,  and  careful  speech, 

Your  strength  and  self-possession.     Then  they  came 

With  that  dramatic  sense  which  is  American 

Into  the  hall  with  rails  which  you  had  split, 

And  called  you  Honest  Abe,  and  wearing  badges 

With  your  face  on  them  and  the  poor  catch  words 

Of  Honest  Abe,  as  if  you  were  a  referee 

Like  Honest  Kelly,  when  in  truth  no  man 

Had  ever  been  your  intimate,  ever  slapped  you 

With  brisk  familiarity,  or  called  you 

Anything  but  Mr.  Lincoln,  never 

Abe,  or  Abraham,  and  never  used 

The  Hello  Bill  of  salutation  to  you  — 

O  great  patrician,  therefore  fit  to  be 

Great  democrat  as  well! 

In  1862  Charles  publishes 

"How  Orchid  Flowers  are  Fertilized  by  Insects," 

And  you  give  forth  a  proclamation  saying 

"The  Union  must  have  peace,  or  I  wipe  out 

The  blot  of  Negro  slavery.     You  see, 

The  symphony's  the  thing,  and  if  you  mar  it, 

Contending  over  slavery,  I  remove 

The  source  of  the  disharmony.     I  admit 

The  freedom  of  the  press  —  but  for  the  Union. 

When  you  abuse  the  Union,  you  shall  stop. 

245 


0) 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

And  when  you  are  in  jail,  no  habeas  corpus 

Shall  bring  relief —  I  have  suspended  it." 

To-day  they  call  you  libertarian  — 

Well,  so  you  were,  but  just  as  Beauty  is, 

And  Truth  is,  even  if  they  curb  and  vanquish 

The  lower  heights  of  beauty  and  of  truth. 

They  take  your  speech  and  deeds  and  give  you  place 

In  Hebrew  temples  with  Ezekiel, 

Habakkuk  and  Isaiah  —  you  emerge 

From  this  association,  master  man! 

You  are  not  of  the  faith  that  breeds  the  ethic 

Wranglers,  who  make  economic  goals 

The  strain  and  test  of  life.     You  are  not  one, 

Spite  of  your  lash  and  sword  threat,  who  believe 

God  will  avenge  the  weak.     That  is  the  dream 

Which  builds  millenniums  where  disharmonies 

That  make  the  larger  harmony  shall  cease  — 

A  dream  not  yours.     And  they  shall  lose  you  who 

Enthrone  you  as  a  prophet  who  cut  through 

The  circle  of  our  human  sphere  of  life 

To  let  in  wrath  and  judgments,  final  tests 

On  Life  around  the  price  of  sparrows,  weights 

Wherewith  bread  shall  be  weighed.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  windless  flame  where  cries  and  tears, 

Where  hunger,  strife,  and  war  and  human  blood 

No  shadow  cast,  and  where  the  love  of  Truth, 

Which  is  not  love  of  individual  souls, 

Finds  solace  in  a  Judgment  of  our  life. 

That  is  the  Flame  that  took  both  Charles  and  You  — 

O  leader  in  a  Commonwealth  of  Thought! 

Reedy' s  Mirror  Edgar  Lee  Masters 

246 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


88  Lincoln 


LIKE  a  gaunt,  scraggly  pine 
Which  lifts  its  head  above  the  mournful  sandhills; 
And  patiently,  through  dull  years  of  bitter  silence, 
Untended  and  uncared  for,  starts  to  grow. 

Ungainly,  labouring,  huge, 

The  wind  of  the  north  has  twisted  and  gnarled  its  branches; 

Yet  in  the  heat  of  midsummer  days,  when  thunder-clouds 

ring  the  horizon, 
A  nation  of  men  shall  rest  beneath  its  shade. 

And  it  shall  protect  them  all, 

Hold  everyone  safe  there,  watching  aloof  in  silence; 
Until  at  last  one  mad  stray  bolt  from  the  zenith 
Shall  strike  it  in  an  instant  down  to  earth. 


There  was  a  darkness  in  this  man;  an  immense  and  hollow 
darkness, 

Of  which  we  may  not  speak,  nor  share  with  him,  nor  enter; 

A  darkness  through  which  strong  roots  stretched  down 
wards  into  the  earth 

Towards  old  things; 

Towards  the  herdman-kings  who  walked  the  earth  and 

spoke  with  God, 
Towards  the  wanderers  •  who  sought  for  they  knew  not 

what,  and  found  their  goal  at  last; 

247 


IP 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Towards   the   men   who   waited,   only  waited    patiently 

when  all  seemed  lost, 
Many  bitter  winters  of  defeat; 

Down  to  the  granite  of  patience 

These  roots  swept,  knotted  fibrous  roots,  prying,  piercing, 

seeking, 
And   drew  from   the  living  rock  and   the  living  waters 

about  it 
The  red  sap  to  carry  upwards  to  the  sun. 

Not  proud,  but  humble, 

Only  to  serve  and  pass  on,  to  endure  to  the  end  through 

service; 
For  the  axe  is  laid  at  the  roots  of  the  trees,  and  all  that 

bring  not  forth  good  fruit 
Shall  be  cut  down  on  the  day  to  come  and  cast  into  the  fire. 

in 

There  is  a  silence  abroad  in  the  land  to-day, 

And  in  the  hearts  of  men,  a  deep  and  anxious  silence; 

And,  because  we  are  still  at  last,  those  bronze  lips  slowly 

open, 
Those  hollow  and  weary  eyes  take  on  a  gleam  of  light. 

Slowly  a  patient,  firm-syllabled  voice  cuts  through  the 

endless  silence 
Like  labouring  oxen  that  drag  a  plow  through  the  chaos 

of  rude  clay-fields; 

"  I  went  forward  as  the  light  goes  forward  in  early  spring, 
But  there  were  also  many  things  which  I  left  behind. 
248 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Tombs  that  were  quiet; 

One,  of  a  mother,  whose  brief  light  went  out  in  the  dark 
ness, 

One,  of  a  loved  one,  the  snow  on  whose  grave  is  long  falling, 
One,  only  of  a  child,  but  it  was  mine. 

"Have  you  forgot  your  graves?     Go,  question  them  in 

anguish, 
Listen  long  to  their  unstirred  lips.     From  your  hostages 

to  silence, 
Learn  there  is  no  life  without  death,  no  dawn  without 

sunsetting, 
No  victory  but  to  him  who  has  given  all." 

IV 

The  clamour  of  cannon  dies  down,  the  furnace-mouth  of 

the  battle  is  silent. 
The  midwinter  sun  dips  and  descends,  the  earth  takes  on 

afresh  its  bright  colours, 
But  he  whom  we  mocked  and  obeyed  not,  he  whom  we 

scorned  and  mistrusted, 
He  has  descended,  like  a  god,  to  his  rest. 

Over  the  uproar  of  cities, 

Over  the  million  intricate  threads  of  life  wavering  and 
crossing, 

In  the  midst  of  problems  we  know  not,  tangling,  perplex 
ing,  ensnaring, 

Rises  one  white  tomb  alone. 

Beam  over  it,  stars, 

Wrap  it  round,  stripes  —  stripes  red  for  the  pain  that 
he  bore  for  you  — 

249 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Enfold  it  forever,  O  flag,  rent,  soiled,  but  repaired  through 

your  anguish; 
Long  as  you  keep  him  there  safe,  the  nations  shaft  bow 

to  your  law. 

Strew  over  him  flowers: 

Blue  forget-me-nots  from  the  north,  and  the  bright  pink 

arbutus 

From  the  east,  and  from  the  west  rich  orange  blossom, 
But  from  the  heart  of  the  land  take  the  passion-flower; 

Rayed,  violet,  dim, 

With  the  nails  that  pierced,  the  cross  that  he  bore  and 

the  circlet, 

And  beside  it  there  lay  also  one  lonely  snow-white  magnolia, 
Bitter  for  remembrance  of  the  healing  which  has  passed. 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America        John  Gould  Fletcher 


89        General  William  Booth  Enters 
into  Heaven 

[To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  The  Blood  of  the  Lamb  with  indi 
cated  instrument] 

I 

[Bass  drum  beaten  loudly] 

BOOTH  led  boldly  with  his  big  bass  drum  — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
The  Saints  smiled  gravely  and  they  said:  "He's  come." 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
Walking  lepers  followed,  rank  on  rank, 
Lurching  bravoes  from  the  ditches  dank, 
250 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Drabs  from  the  alleyways  and  drug  fiends  pale  — 
Minds  still  passion-ridden,  soul-powers  frail:  — 
Vermin-eaten  saints  with  mouldy  breath, 
Unwashed  legions  with  the  ways  of  Death  — 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

[Banjos] 

Every  slum  had  sent  its  half-a-score 
The  round  world  over.    (Booth  had  groaned  for  more.) 
Every  banner  that  the  wide  world  flies 
Bloomed  with  glory  and  transcendent  dyes. 
Big-voiced  lasses  made  their  banjos  bang, 
Tranced,  fanatical  they  shrieked  and  sang:  — 
"Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?" 
Hallelujah!     It  was  queer  to  see 
Bull-necked  convicts  with  that  land  make  free. 
Loons  with  trumpets  blowed  a  blare,  blare,  blare 
On,  on  upward  thro'  the  golden  air! 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 

ii 

[Bass  drum  slower  and  softer] 
Booth  died  blind  and  still  by  Faith  he  trod, 
Eyes  still  dazzled  by  the  ways  of  God. 
Booth  led  boldly,  and  he  looked  the  chief 
Eagle  countenance  in  sharp  relief, 
Beard  a-flying,  air  of  high  command 
Unabated  in  that  holy  land. 

[Sweet  flute  music} 

Jesus  came  from  out  the  court-house  door, 
Stretched  his  hands  above  the  passing  poor. 

251 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Booth  saw  not,  but  led  his  queer  ones  there 

Round  and  round  the  mighty  court-house  square. 

Yet  in  an  instant  all  that  blear  review 

Marched  on  spotless,  clad  in  raiment  new. 

The  lame  were  straightened,  withered  limbs  uncurled 

And  blind  eyes  opened  on  a  new,  sweet  world. 

[Bass  drum  louder} 

Drabs  and  vixens  in  a  flash  made  whole! 
Gone  was  the  weasel-head,  the  snout,  the  jowl! 
Sages  and  sibyls  now,  and  athletes  clean, 
Rulers  of  empires,  and  of  forests  green! 

[Grand  chorus  of  all  instruments.     Tambourines  to  the 

foreground} 

The  hosts  were  sandalled,  and  their  wings  were  fire! 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
But  their  noise  played  havoc  with  the  angel-choir. 
(Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb?) 
O,  shout  Salvation!     It  was  good  to  see 
Kings  and  Princes  by  the  Lamb  set  free. 
The  banjos  rattled  and  the  tambourines 
Jing-j ing-jingled  in  the  hands  of  Queens. 

[Reverently  sung,  no  instruments] 
And  when  Booth  halted  by  the  curb  for  prayer 
He  saw  his  Master  thro'  the  flag-filled  air. 
Christ  came  gently  with  a  robe  and  crown 
For  Booth  the  soldier,  while  the  throng  knelt  down. 
He  saw  King  Jesus.     They  were  face  to  face, 
And  he  knelt  a-weeping  in  that  holy  place. 
Are  you  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb? 

Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Fachel  Lindsay 

252 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


90  The  Poppies 

THIS  is  the  garden  of  our  joyous  care, 
Where  such  a  little  time  before  you  died 
You  walked  with  pleasant  pride 
And  pointed  out  your  favorites,  the  rare 
Tree  roses,  and  the  riotous  delight 
Of  poppies,  from  the  crimson  to  the  white 
Sounding  the  gamut  of  ecstatic  hue. 
So  richly  coloured  was  all  life  to  you! 
You  never  called  the  world  a  vale  of  tears. 
Such  long  and  loving  labor  overgrown! 
How  soon  the  wild  undoes  your  patient  years  .  . 
Not  wholly;  with  each  summer's  weeds  I  see 
Poppies  arise,  self-sown. 
They  are  your  garden's  immortality. 

What  would  be  Heaven  for  you  ?     It  comforts  me 

To  picture  you  with  leisure  and  with  strength 

To  bring  to  life  at  length 

Your  dreams  of  beauty  —  all  your  soul  set  free 

From  the  mean  goading  of  necessity, 

And  from  the  bodily  pain 

You  bore  so  bravely,  like  a  galling  chain 

That  heavy  grew  and  heavier  each  day. 

When  death  struck  these  away 

I  knew  the  magnitude  of  your  release 

By  your  high  look  of  peace. 

God  knows  I  had  no  lack  of  tears,  but  they 

Were  not  for  you.     My  sorrow  was  my  own. 

I  read  —  "/  will  not  leave  you  comfortless, 

But  I  will  come  to  you."     I  had  not  known 

253 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  meaning  of  those  words  until  your  death. 
You  were  less  near  to  me  when  I  could  press 
Your  hand  and  feel  your  breath 
Upon  my  cheek,  than  now.     You  seem  so  near, 
So  full  of  life,  so  constantly  more  dear, 
I  feel  it  only  needs  to  turn  my  gaze 
To  see  you  standing  here 
Among  your  flowers,  as  in  other  days. 
Like  little  shouts  of  exultation  sweet 
The  poppies  at  my  feet 

Loose  to  the  wind  their  petals.     Let  them  die  — 
From  them  shall  spring  new  beauty,  by  and  by.  ' 
They  are  not  over-greedy  for  a  pledge 
Of  immortality;  they  give  their  best 
To  earth  —  God  knows  the  rest. 
So  did  you  tread  your  path  across  the  edge 
Of  this  our  visible  world.     You  did  not  hoard 
Your  spirit's  treasure  for  a  world  unseen 
Nor  chaffer  with  your  God  for  a  reward 
Ere  you  would  serve.     You  did  not  even  trust 
Your  Master  would  be  just. 
You  wrent  your  way  generous  and  serene, 
And  gave  unquestioning  all  you  had  to  spend 
As  friend  to  friend. 

If  you  had  known  that  all  should  end  in  dust 
You  would  have  thought  it  shame  to  drop  your  sword, 
Because  you  fought  your  beasts  at  Ephesus 
Not  for  yourself  —  for  us, 
Who  loved  in  you  the  love  of  righteousness. 
There  is  no  soul  that  touched  you  in  the  stress 
Of  that  great  battle  where  you  did  your  part 
So  gallantly,  which  you  did  not  impress 
254 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

With  your  own  chivalry.     In  every  heart 
That  knew  .you,  there  is  sown 
Some  ruddy-blossomed  seedling  of  your  own. 
Whatever  Heaven  there  beyond  may  be, 
This  I  can  see! 

If  this  dear  presence  by  my  love  discerned 

Be  your  own  self,  the  self  I  knew,  returned 

From  larger  life  in  some  transfigured  guise 

Unseen  by  mortal  eyes, 

Or  if  it  be  your  spirit  as  it  grew 

Unconsciously  of  my  own  self  a  part, 

Could  it  be  any  nearer,  if  I  knew, 

Or  dearer  to  my  heart? 

You  are  in  God,  as  you  have  always  been. 

Although  I  find  it  sweet 

To  dream  that  I  shall  know  you  when  we  meet 

In  such  a  garden  as  you  cherished  here, 

I  will  not  wait  until  I  die,  my  Dear, 

For  Heaven  to  begin. 

Sweeter  it  is  to  know  that  I  can  give 

Your  deathless  bounty  to  a  world  in  need. 

I  sow  you  as  the  poppy  sows  her  seed, 

And  in  my  love  you  live. 

The  Bellman  Amelia  Josephine  Burr 


91  Yellow  Clover 

MUST  I,  who  walk  alone, 
Come  on  it  still, 
This  Puck  of  plants 
The  wise  would  do  away  with, 

255 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  sunshine  slants 

To  play  with, 

Our  wee,  gold-dusty  flower,  the  yellow  clover, 

Which  once  in  parting  for  a  time 

That  then  seemed  long, 

Ere  time  for  you  was  over, 

We  sealed  our  own? 

Do  you.  remember  yet, 

O  Soul  beyond  the  stars, 

Beyond  the  uttermost  dim  bars 

Of  space, 

Dear  Soul,  who  found  earth  sweet, 

Remember  by  love's  grace, 

In  dreamy  hushes  of  the  heavenly  song, 

How  suddenly  we  halted  in  our  climb, 

Lingering,  reluctant,  up  that  farthest  hill, 

Stooped  for  the  blossoms  closest  to  our  feet, 

And  gave  them  as  a  token 

Each  to  each, 

In  lieu  of  speech, 

In  lieu  of  words  too  grievous  to  be  spoken, 

Those  little,  gypsy,  wondering  blossoms  wet 

With  a  strange  dew  of  tears? 

So  it  began, 

This  vagabond,  unvalued  yellow  clover, 
To  be  our  tenderest  language.    All  the  years 
It  lent  a  new  zest  to  the  summer  hours, 
As  each  of  us  went  scheming  to  surprise 
The  other  with  our  homely,  laureate  flowers, 
Sonnets  and  odes 
Fringing  our  daily  roads. 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Can  amaranth  and  asphodel 

Bring  merrier  laughter  to  your  eyes? 

Oh,  if  the  Blest,  in  their  serene  abodes, 

Keep  any  wistful  consciousness  of  earth, 

Not  grandeurs,  but  the  childish  ways  of  love, 

Simplicities  of  mirth, 

Must  follow  them  above 

With  touches  of  vague  homesickness  that  pass 

Like  shadows  of  swift  birds  across  the  grass. 

Beneath  some  foreign  axch  of  sky, 

How  many  a  time  the  rover 

You  or  I, 

For  life  oft  sundered  look  from  look, 

And  voice  from  voice,  the  transient  dearth 

Schooling  my  soul  to  brook 

This  distance  that  no  messages  may  span, 

Would  chance 

Upon  our  wilding  by  a  lonely  well, 

Or  drowsy  watermill, 

Or  swaying  to  the  chime  of  convent  bell, 

Or  where  the  nightingales  of  old  romance 

With  tragical  contraltos  fill 

Dim  solitudes  of  infinite  desire; 

And  once  I  joyed  to  meet 

Our  peasant  gadabout 

A  trespasser  on  trim,  seigniorial  seat, 

Twinkling  a  saucy  eye 

As  potentates  paced  by. 

Our  golden  cord!  our  soft,  pursuing  flame 

From  friendship's  altar  fire! 

How  proudly  we  would  pluck  and  tame 

257 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  dimpling  clusters,  mutinously  gay! 

How  swiftly  they  were  sent 

Far,  far  away 

On  journeys  wide, 

By  sea  and  continent, 

Green  miles  and  blue  leagues  over, 

From  each  of  us  to  each, 

That  so  our  hearts  might  reach, 

And  touch  within  the  yellow  clover, 

Love's  letter  to  be  glad  about 

Like  sunshine  when  it  came! 

My  sorrow  asks  no  healing;  it  is  love; 
Let  love  then  make  me  brave 
To  bear  the  keen  hurts  of 
This  careless  summertide, 
Ay,  of  our  own  poor  flower, 
Changed  with  our  fatal  hour, 
For  all  its  sunshine  vanished  when  you  died; 
Only  white  clover  blossoms  on  your  grave. 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America        Katharine  Lee  Bates 


92  Over  Night,  a  Rose 

THAT  over  night  a  rose  could  come 
I,  one  time  did  believe, 
For  when  the  fairies  live  with  one, 

They  wilfully  deceive. 
But  now  I  know  this  perfect  thing 

Under  the  frozen  sod 
258 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

In  cold  and  storm  grew  patiently 

Obedient  to  God. 
My  wonder  grows,  since  knowledge  came 

Old  fancies  to  dismiss; 
And  courage  comes.     Was  not  the  rose 

A  winter  doing  this? 
Nor  did  it  know,  the  weary  while, 

What  color  and  perfume 
With  this  completed  loveliness 

Lay  in  that  earthly  tomb. 
So  maybe  I,  who  cannot  see 

What  God  wills  not  to  show, 
May,  some  day,  bear  a  rose  for  Him 

It  took  my  life  to  grow. 
The  Boston  Transcript  Caroline  Giltinan 


93  Evensong 

BEAUTY  calls  and  gives  no  warning, 
Shadows  rise  and  wander  on  the  day. 
In  the  twilight,  in  the  quiet  evening, 
We  shall  rise  and  smile  and  go  away. 
Over  the  flaming  leaves 
Freezes  the  sky. 
It  is  the  season  grieves/ 
Not  you,  not  I. 

All  our  spring-times,  all  our  summers, 
We  have  kept  the  longing  warm  within. 
Now  we  leave  the  after-comers 
To  attain  the  dreams  we  did  not  win. 

259 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

O  we  have  wakened,  Sweet,  and  had  our  birth, 
And  that's  the  end  of  earth; 

And  we  have  toiled  and  smiled  and  kept  the  light, 
And  that's  the  end  of  night. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly  Ridgely  Torrence 


94  Battle  Sleep 

SOMEWHERE,  O  sun,  some  corner  there  must  be 
Thou  visitest,  where  down  the  strand 
Quietly,  still,  the  waves  go  out  to  sea 

From  the  green  fringes  of  a  pastoral  land. 


Deep  in  the  orchard-bloom  the  roof-trees  stand, 
The  brown  sheep  graze  along  the  bay, 

And  through  the  apple-boughs  above  the  sand 
The  bees'  hum  sounds  no  fainter  than  the  spray. 

There  through  uncounted  hours  declines  the  day 

To  the  low  arch  of  twilight's  close, 
And,  just  as  night  about  the  moon  grows  gray, 

One  sail  leans  westward  to  the  fading  rose. 

Giver  of  dreams,  O  thou  with  scatheless  wing 
Forever  moving  through  the  fiery  hail, 

To  flame-seared  lids  the  cooling  vision  bring, 
And  let  some  soul  go  seaward  with  that  sail! 

The  Century  Magazine  Edith  Wharton 

260 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

95  Song 

From  "Flesh:  A  Gregorian  Ode" 

EBB  on  with  me  across  the  sunset  tide 
And  float  beyond  the  waters  of  the  world, 
The  light  of  evening  slipping  from  thy  side, 
Thy  softened  voice  in  waves  of  silence  furled. 

Flow  on  into  the  flaming  morning  wine, 

Drowning  the  land  in  color.    Then  on  high 
Rise  in  thy  candid  innocence  and  shine 

Like  to  a  poplar  straight  against  the  sky. 
The  Boston  Transcript  Edward  J.  O'Brien 


96  A  Statue  in  a  Garden 

I  WAS  a  goddess  ere  the  marble  found  me. 
Wind,  wind,  delay  not! 

Waft  my  spirit  where  the  laurel  crowned  me! 
Will  the  wind  stay  not? 

Then  tarry,  tarry,  listen,  little  swallow! 

An  old  glory  feeds  me: 
I  lay  upon  the  bosom  of  Apollo! 

Not  a  bird  heeds  me. 

For  here  the  days  are  alien.     O,  to  waken 

Mine,  mine,  with  calling! 
But  on  my  shoulders  bare,  like  hopes  forsaken, 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 

261 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

The  sky  is  gray  and  full  of  unshed  weeping 

As  dim  down  the  garden 
I  wait  and  watch  the  early  autumn  sweeping. 

The  stalks  fade  and  harden. 

The  souls  of  all  the  flowers  afar  have  rallied. 

The  trees,  gaunt,  appalling, 
Attest  the  gloom,  and  on  my  shoulders  pallid 

The  dead  leaves  are  falling. 
Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Agnes  Lee 


97  The  Lesser  Children 

A   THRENODY  AT   THE    HUNTING    SEASON 

IN  the  middle  of  August  when  the  southwest  wind 
Blows  after  sunset  through  the  leisuring  air, 
And  on  the  sky  nightly  the  mythic  Bee 
Leads  down  the  sullen  dog  star  to  his  lair, 
After  the  feverous  vigil  of  July, 
When  the  loud  pageant  of  the  year's  high  noon 
Passed  up  the  ways  of  time  to  sing  and  part, 
Grief  also  wandered  by 
From  out  the  lovers  and  the  leaves  of  June, 
And  one  night,  at  the  hiding  of  the  moon, 
I  knew  his  heart  was  very  Love's  own  heart. 
Deep  within  dreams  he  led  me  out  of  doors 
As  from  the  upper  vault  the  night  outpours, 
And  when  I  saw  that  to  him  all  the  skies 
Yearned  as  a  sea  asleep  yearns  to  its  shores 
He  took  a  little  clay  and  touched  my  eyes. 
262 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

What  saw  I  then,  what  heard? 

Multitudes,  multitudes,  under  the  moon  they  stirred! 

The  weaker  brothers  of  our  earthly  breed; 

Watchmen  of  whom  our  safety  takes  no  heed; 

Swift  helpers  of  the  wind  that  sowed  the  seed 

Before  the  first  field  was  or  any/ruit; 

Warriors  against  the  bivouac  of  the  weed; 

Earth's  earliest  ploughmen  for  the  tender  root, 

All  came  about  my  head  and  at  my  feet 

A  thousand,  thousand  sweet, 

With  starry  eyes  not  even  raised  to  plead; 

Bewildered,  driven,  hiding,  fluttering,  mute! 

And  I  beheld  and  saw  them  one  by  one 

Pass  and  become  as  -nothing  in  the  night. 

Clothed  on  with  red  they  were  who  once  were  white; 

Drooping,  who  once  led  armies  to  the  sun, 

Of  whom  the  lowly  grass  now  topped  the  flight: 

In  scarlet  faint,  who  once  were  brave  in  brown; 

Climbers  and  builders  of  the  silent  town, 

Creepers  and  burrowers  all  in  crimson  dye, 

Winged  mysteries  of  song  that  from  the  sky 

Once  dashed  long  music  down. 

O  who  would  take  away  music  from  the  earth? 
Have  we  so  much?     Or  love  upon  the  hearth? 
No  more  —  they  faded; 

The  great  trees  bending  between  birth  and  birth 
Sighed  for  them,  and  the  night  wind's  hoarse  rebuff 
Shouted  the  shame  of  which  I  was  persuaded. 
Shall  Nature's  only  pausing  be  by  men  invaded? 
Or  shall  we  lay  grief's  fagots  on  her  shoulders  bare? 
Has  she  not  borne  enough  ? 

263 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Soon  will  the  mirroring  woodland  pools  begin  to  con  her, 

And  her  sad  immemorial  passion  come  upon  her; 

Lo,  would  you  add  despair  unto  despair? 

Shall  not  the  Spring  be  answer  to  her  prayer? 

Must  her  uncomforted  heavens  overhead, 

Weeping,  look  down  on  tears  and  still  behold 

Only  wings  broken  or  a  fledgling  dead, 

Or  underfoot  the  meadows  that  wore  gold 

Die,  and  the  leaves  go  mourning  to  the  mould 

Beneath  poor  dead  and  desperate  feet 

Of  folk  who  in  next  summer's  meadows  shall  not  meet? 

Who  has  not  seen  in  the  high  gulf  of  light 
What,  lower,  was  a  bird,  but  now 
Is  moored  and  altered  quite 
Into  an  island  of  unshaded  joy? 
To  whom  the  mate  below  upon  the  bough 
Shouts  once  and  brings  him  from  his  high  employ. 
Yet  speeding  he  forgot  not  of  the  cloud 
Where  he  from  glory  sprang  and  burned  aloud, 
But  took  a  little  of  the  day, 
A  little  of  the  colored  sky, 
And  of  the  joy  that  would  not  stay 
He  wove  a  song  that  cannot  die. 
Then,  then  —  the  unfathomable  shame; 
The  one  last  wrong  arose  from  out  the  flame, 
The  ravening  hate  that  hated  not  was  hurled 
Bidding  the  radiant  love  once  more  beware, 
Bringing  one  more  loneliness  on  the  world, 
And  one  more  blindness  in  the  unseen  air. 
Nor  may  the  smooth  regret,  the  pitying  oath 
Shed  on  such  utter  bitter  any  leaven. 
264 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Only  the  pleading  flowers  that  knew  them  both 
Hold  all  their  bloody  petals  up  to  heaven. 

Winds  of  the  fall  that  all  year  to  and  fro 

Somewhere  upon  the  earth  go  wandering, 

You  saw,  you  moaned,  you  know: 

Withhold  not  then  unto  all  time  to  tell 

Lest  unborn  others  of  us  see  this  thing. 

Bring  our  sleek,  comfortable  reason  low: 

Recount  how  souls  grown  tremulous  as  a  bell 

Came  forth  each  other  and  the  day  to  greet 

In  morning  air  all  Indian-Summer  sweet, 

And  crept  upstream,  through  wood  or  field  or  brake, 

Most  tremblingly  to  take 

What  crumbs  that  from  the  Master's  table  fell. 

Cry  with  what  thronging  thunders  they  were  met, 

And  hide  not  how  the  least  leaf  was  made  wet. 

Cry  till  no  watcher  says  that  all  is  well 

With  raucous  discord  through  the  leaning  spheres. 

But  tell 

With  tears,  with  tears 

How  the  last  man  is  harmed  even  as  they 

Who  on  these  dawns  are  fire,  at  dusk  are  clay. 

Record  the  dumb  and  wise, 

No  less  than  those  who  lived  in  singing  guise, 

Whose  choric  hearts  lit  each  wild  green  arcade. 

Make  men  to  see  their  eyes, 

Forced  to  suspect  behind  each  reed  or  rose 

The  thorn  of  lurking  foes. 

And  O,  before  the  daylight  goes, 

After  the  deed  against  the  skies, 

After  the  last  belief  and  longing  dies, 

265 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Make  men  again  to  see  their  eyes 
Whose  piteous  casements  now  all  unafraid 
Peer  out  to  that  far  verge  where  evermore, 
Beyond  all  woe  for  which  a  tear  atones, 
The  likeness  of  our  own  dishonor  moans, 
A  sea  that  has  no  bottom  and  no  shore. 

What  shall  be  done 

By  you,  shy  folk  who  cease  thus  heart  by  heart? 

You  for  whose  fate  such  fate  forever  hovers  ? 

O  little  lovers, 

If  you  would  still  have  nests  beneath  the  sun 

Gather  your  broods  about  you  and  depart, 

Before  the  stony  forward-pressing  faces 

Into  the  lands  bereft  of  any  sound; 

The  solemn  and  compassionate  desert  places. 

Give  unto  men  no  more  the  strong  delight 

To  know  that  underneath  the  frozen  ground 

Dwells  the  warm  life  and  all  the  quick,  pure  lore. 

Take  from  our  eyes  the  glory  of  great  flight. 

Let  us  behold  no  more 

People  untroubled  by  a  Fate's  veiled  eyes, 

Leave  us  upon  an  earth  of  faith  forlorn. 

No  more  wild  tidings  from  the  sweet  far  skies 

Of  love's  long  utmost  heavenward  endeavor. 

So  shall  the  silence  pour  on  us  forever 

The  streaming  arrows  of  unutterable  scorn. 

Nor  shall  the  cry  of  famine  be  a  shield 
The  altar  of  a  brutish  mood  to  hide. 
Stains,  stains,  upon  the  lintels  of  our  doors 
Wrail  to  be  justified. 
266 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Shall  there  be  mutterings  at  the  seasons'  yield? 
Has  eye  of  man  seen  bared  the  granary  floors? 
Are  the  fields  wasted?     Spilled  the  oil  and  wine? 
Is  the  fat  seed  under  the  clod  decayed? 
Does  ever  the  fig  tree  languish  or  the  vine? 
Who  has  beheld  the  harvest  promise  fade? 
Or  any  orchard  heavy  with  fruit  asway 
Withered  away? 

No,  not  these  things,  but  grosser  things  than  those 
Are  the  dim  parents  of  a  guilt  not  dim; 
Ancestral  urges  out  of  old  caves  blowing, 
When  Fear  watched  at  our  coming  and  our  going 
The  horror  of  the  chattering  face  of  Whim. 
Hates,  cruelties  new  fallen  from  the  trees 
Whereto  we  clung  with  impulse  sad  for  love, 
Shames  we  have  had  all  time  to  rid  us  of, 
Disgraces  cold  and  sorrows  long  bewept, 
Recalled,  revived,  and  kept, 
Unmeaning  quarrels,  blood-compelling  lust, 
And  snarling  woes  from  our  old  home,  the  dust. 

Yet  even  of  these  one  saving  shape  may  rise; 

Fear  may  unveil  our  eyes. 

For  know  you  not  what  curse  of  blight  would  fall 

Upon  a  land  lorn  of  the  sweet  sky  races 

Who  day  and  night  keep  ward  and  seneschal 

Upon  the  treasury  of  the  planted  spaces? 

Then  would  the  locust  have  his  fill, 

And  the  blind  worm  lay  tithe, 

The  unfed  stones  rot  in  the  listless  mill, 

The  sound  of  grinding  cease. 

No  yearning  gold  would  whisper  to  the  scythe, 

267 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Hunger  at  last  would  prove  us  of  one  blood, 

The  shores  of  dreams  be  drowned  in  tides  of  need, 

Horribly  would  the  whole  earth  be  at  peace. 

The  burden  of  the  grasshopper  indeed 

Weigh  down  the  green  corn  and  the  tender  bud, 

The  plague  of  Egypt  fall  upon  the  wheat, 

And  the  shrill  nit  would  batten  in  the  heat. 

But  you,  O  poor  of  deeds  and  rich  of  breath, 
Whose  eyes  have  made  our  eyes  a  hue  abhorred, 
Red,  eager  aids  of  aid-unneeding  Death, 
Hunters  before  the  Lord, 
If  on  the  flinted  marge  about  your  souls 
In  vain  the  heaving  tide  of  mourning  rolls, 
If  from  your  trails  unto  the  crimson  goals 
The  weeper  and  the  weeping  must  depart, 
If  lust  of  blood  come  on  you  like  a  fiery  dart 
And  darken  all  the  dark  autumnal  air, 
Then,  then  —  be  fair. 
Pluck  a  young  ash  tree  or  a  sapling  yew 
And  at  the  root  end  fix  an  iron  thorn, 
Then  forth  with  rocking  laughter  of  the  horn 
And  passing,  with  no  belling  retinue, 
All  timorous,  lesser  sippers  of  the  dew, 
Seek  out  some  burly  guardian  of  the  hills 
And  set  your  urgent  thew  against  his  thew. 
Then  shall  the  hidden  wisdoms  and  the  wills 
Strive,  and  bear  witness  to  the  trees  and  clods 
How  one  has  dumb  lore  of  the  rocks  and  swales 
And  one  has  reason  like  unto  the  gods. 
Then  shall  the  lagging  righteousness  ensue, 
The  powers  at  last  be  equal  in  the  scales, 
268 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  the  man's  club  and  the  beast's  claw  be  flails 

To  winnow  the  unworthy  of  the  two. 

Then  on  the  earth,  in  the  sky  and  the  heavenly  court 

That  broods  behind  it, 

Justice  shall  be  awakened  and  aware, 

Then  those  who  go  forth  greatly,  seeking  sport, 

Shall  doubtless  find  it, 

And  all  things  be  fair. 

The  Atlantic  Monthly  Ridgely  Torre  nee 

98  A  Thrush  in  the  Moonlight 

IN  came  the  moon  and  covered  me  with  wonder, 
Touched  me  and  was  near  me,  and  made  me  very  still. 
In  came  a  rush  of  song,  like  rain  after  thunder, 
Pouring  importunate  on  my  window-sill. 

I  lowered  my  head,  I  hid  it,  I  would  not  see  nor  hear, 
The  bird  song  had  stricken  me,  had  brought  the  moon 

too  near. 

But  when  I  dared  to  lift  my  head,  night  began  to  fill 
With  singing  in  the  darkness.     And  then  the  thrush  grew 

still. 

And  the  moon  came  in,  and  silence,  on  my  window-sill. 
Poetry:  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Witter  Bynner 

99  November 

HARK  you  such  sound  as  quivers?    Kings  will  hear, 
As  kings  have  heard,  and  tremble  on  their  thrones; 
The  old  will  feel  the  weight  of  mossy  stones; 
The  young  alone  will  laugh  and  scoff  at  fear. 

269 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

It  is  the  tread  of  armies  marching  near, 

From  scarlet  lands  to  lands  forever  pale; 

It  is  a  bugle  dying  down  the  gale; 

It  is  the  sudden  gushing  of  a  tear. 
And  it  is  hands  that  grope  at  ghostly  doors; 

And  romp  of  spirit-children  on  the  pave; 

It  is  the  tender  sighing  of  the  brave 
Who  fell,  ah!  long  ago,  in  futile  wars; 

It  is  such  sound  as  death;  and,  after  all, 

'T  is  but  the  forest  letting  dead  leaves  fall. 
The  Bellman  Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher 

100  The  Winter  Scene 


f  I  ^HE  rutted  roads  are  all  like  iron;  skies 

J.     Are  keen  and  brilliant;  only  the  oak-leaves  cling 
In  the  bare  woods,  or  hardy  bitter-sweet; 
Drivers  have  put  their  sheepskin  jackets  on; 
And  all  the  ponds  are  sealed  with  sheeted  ice 
That  rings  with  stroke  of  skate  and  hockey-stick, 
Or  in  the  twilight  cracks  with  running  whoop. 
Bring  in  the  logs  of  oak  and  hickory, 
And  make  an  ample  blaze  on  the  wide  hearth. 
Now  is  the  time,  with  winter  o'er  the  world, 
For  books  and  friends  and  yellow  candle-light, 
And  timeless  lingering  by  the  settling  fire, 
While  all  the  shuddering  stars  are  keen  and  cold. 

II 

Out  of  the  silent  portal  of  the  hours, 
When  frosts  are  come  and  all  the  hosts  put  on 
270 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Their  burnished  gear  to  march  across  the  night 
And  o'er  a  darkened  earth  in  splendor  shine, 
Slowly  above  the  world  Orion  wheels 
His  glittering  square,  while  on  the  shadowy  hill 
And  throbbing  like  a  sea-light  through  the  dusk, 
Great  Sirius  rises  in  his  flashing  blue. 
Lord  of  the  winter  night,  august  and  pure, 
Returning  year  on  year  untouched  by  time. 
To  kindle  faith  with  thy  immortal  fire, 
There  are  no  hurts  that  beauty  cannot  ease, 
No  ills  that  love  cannot  at  last  repair, 
In  the  courageous  progress  of  the  soul. 

ill 

Russet  and  white  and  gray  is  the  oak  wood 

In  the  great  snow.    Still  from  the  North  it  comes, 

Whispering,  settling,  sifting  through  the  trees, 

O'erloading  branch  and  twig.    The  road  is  lost. 

Clearing  and  meadow,  stream  and  ice-bound  pond 

Are  made  once  more  a  trackless  wilderness 

In  the  white  hush  where  not  a  creature  stirs; 

And  the  pale  sun  is  blotted  from  the  sky. 

In  that  strange  twilight  the  lone  traveller  halts 

To  listen  while  the  stealthy  snowflakes  fall. 

And  then  far  off  toward  the  Stamford  shore, 

Where  through  the  storm  the  coastwise  liners  go, 

Faint  and  recurrent  on  the  muffled  air, 

A  foghorn  booming  through  the  smother,  —  hark! 

IV 

When  the  day  changed  and  the  mad  wind  died  down, 
The  powdery  drifts  that  all  day  long  had  blown 

271 


* 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Across  the  meadows  and  the  open  fields, 

Or  whirled  like  diamond  dust  in  the  bright  sun, 

Settled  to  rest,  and  for  a  tranquil  hour 

The  lengthening  bluish  shadows  on  the  snow 

Stole  down  the  orchard  slope,  and  a  rose  light 

Flooded  the  earth  with  glory  and  with  peace. 

Then  in  the  west  behind  the  cedars  black 

The  sinking  sun  made  red  the  winter  dusk 

With  sudden  flare  along  the  snowy  ridge,  — 

Like  a  rare  masterpiece  by  Hokusai, 

Where  on  a  background  gray,  with  flaming  breath 

The  crimson  dragon  dies  in  dusky  gold. 

The  Nation  Bliss  Carman 


101  The  Twelve-Forty-Five 

(For  Edward  J.  Wheeler] 

WITHIN  the  Jersey  City  shed 
The  engine  coughs  and  shakes  its  head. 
The  smoke,  a  plume  of  red  and  white, 
Waves  madly  in  the  face  of  night. 
And  now  the  grave,  incurious  stars 
Gleam  on  the  groaning,  hurrying  cars. 
Against  the  kind  and  awful  reign 
Of  darkness,  this  our  angry  train, 
A  noisy  little  rebel,  pouts 
Its  brief  defiance,  flames  and  shouts  — 
And  passes  on,  and  leaves  no  trace. 
For  darkness  holds  its  ancient  place, 
Serene  and  absolute,  the  king 
Unchanged,  of  every  living  thing. 
272 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  houses  lie  obscure  and  still 

In  Rutherford  and  Carlton  Hill. 

Our  lamps  intensify  the  dark 

Of  slumbering  Passaic  Park. 

And  quiet  holds  the  weary  feet 

That  daily  tramp  through  Prospect  Street. 

What  though  we  clang  and  clank  and  roar 

Through  all  Passaic's  streets?     No  door 

Will  open,  not  an  eye  will  see 

Who  this  loud  vagabond  may  be. 

Upon  my  crimson  cushioned  seat, 

In  manufactured  light  and  heat, 

I  feel  unnatural  and  mean. 

Outside  the  towns  are  cool  and  clean; 

Curtained  awhile  from  sound  and  sight 

They  take  God's  gracious  gift  of  night. 

The  stars  are  watchful  over  them. 

On  Clifton  as  on  Bethlehem 

The  angels,  leaning  down  the  sky, 

Shed  peace  and  gentle  dreams.     And  I  — 

I  ride,  I  blasphemously  ride 

Through  all  the  silent  countryside. 

The  engine's  shriek,  the  headlight's  glare, 

Pollute  the  still  nocturnal  air. 

The  cottages  of  Lake  View  sigh 

And  sleeping,  frown  as  we  pass  by. 

Why,  even  strident  Paterson 

Rests  quietly  as  any  nun. 

Her  foolish  warring  children  keep 

The  grateful  armistice  of  sleep. 

For  what  tremendous  errand's  sake 

Are  we  so  blatantly  awake? 

273 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

What  precious  secret  is  our  freight? 
What  king  must  be  abroad  so  late? 
Perhaps  Death  roams  the  hills  to-night 
And  we  rush  forth  to  give  him  fight. 
Or  else,  perhaps,  we  speed  his  way 
To  some  remote  unthinking  prey. 
Perhaps  a  woman  writhes  in  pain 
And  listens  —  listens  for  the  train! 
The  train,  that  like  an  angel  sings, 
The  train,  with  healing  on  its  wings. 
Now  "Hawthorne!"  the  conductor  cries. 
My  neighbor  starts  and  rubs  his  eyes. 
He  hurries  yawning  through  the  car 
And  steps  out  where  the  houses  are. 
This  is  the  reason  of  our  quest! 
Not  wantonly  we  break  the  rest 
Of  town  and  village,  nor  do  we 
Lightly  profane  night's  sanctity. 
What  Love  commands  the  train  fulfils, 
And  beautiful  upon  the  hills 
Are  these  our  feet  of  burnished  steel. 
Subtly  and  certainly  I  feel 
That  Glen  Rock  welcomes  us  to  her 
And  silent  Ridgewood  seems  to  stir 
And  smile,  because  she  knows  the  train 
Has  brought  her  children  back  again. 
We  carry  people  home  —  and  so 
God  speeds  us,  wheresoe'er  we  go. 
Hohokus,  Waldwick,  Allendale 
Lift  sleepy  heads  to  give  us  hail. 
In  Ramsey,  Mahwah,  Suffern,  stand 
Houses  that  wistfully  demand 
274 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

A  father  —  son  —  some  human  thing 
That  this,  the  midnight  train,  may  bring. 
The  trains  that  travel  in  the  day 
They  hurry  folks  to  work  or  play. 
The  midnight  train  is  slow  and  old 
But  of  it  let  this  thing  be  told, 
To  its  higTi  honor  be  it  said, 
It  carries  people  home  to  bed. 
My  cottage  lamp  shines  white  and  clear. 
God  bless  the  train  that  brought  me  here! 
The  Smart  Set  Joyce  Kilmer 


102  Coming  Home 

THEY  have  hauled  in  the  gang-plank.     The  breast- 
line  crawls  back. 

It  is  "Port,  and  hard  over!"  and  out  through  the  black 
Of  the  storm  and  the  night,  and  across  to  the  mouth 
Of  the  harbor,  where  stretching  far  out  to  the  south, 
Run  the  lights  of  the  town. 

Swinging  slowly  we  turn, 

Pointing  out  for  mid-lake,  past  the  long  pier  where  burn 
The  red  harbor-lights,  where  the  great  billows  churn 
Blow  on  blow  on  the  spiles,  spilling  down  the  white  foam  — 
But  I've  written  the  home-folks  that  I'm  coming  home. 

And  I'm  coming;  huddled  close  by  the  slow-falling  rail, 
Blinking  red  through  the  mist  and  the  spray,  while  the 
hail 

275 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Rattles  down  the  wet  decks  lifting  high,  with  the  wail 
Up  the  wind  of  the  fog-horn  and  behind  on  our  trail, 
And  we  nose  straight  out  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale, 
I  know  by  the  throb  that  the  engines  prevail, 
And  —  steady,  my  courage  —  unless  the  stars  fail, 

We'll  make  it. 

• 

But  tell  me,  O  gray  eyes  and  blue, 
Did  you  know  in  your  watching,  O  dim  eyes  and  true, 
In  that  black  night's  wild  fury  while  the  storm-signals 

flew, 
While  the  storm  beat  us  back  and  the  hoarse  whistles 

blew  — 
Did  you  know,  O  my  dear  ones,  I  was  coming  to  you? 

The  silence  of  midnight;  the  hiss  of  the  swell; 
The  creaking  of  timbers;  the  close  cabin  smell; 
The  slow-swaying  shadows;  the  jar  of  the  screw; 
The  wind  at  the  shutter;  the  feet  of  the  crew; 
The  cry  of  a  child  —  is  he  coming  home,  too? 

There's  a  rent  in  the  night  and  a  star  glimmers  through. 
The  skies  clear  above  us;  the  west  banks  up  brown; 
The  wind  dies  across  us;  the  sea's  running  down; 
And  across  the  dim  water,  still  breaking  in  foam, 
Stretches  out  the  far  shore-line  —  and  I'm  coming  home. 

The  hills  smile  a  welcome;  the  long  night  is  past; 
And  the  ship  's  turning  into  the  harbor  at  last. 
The  engines  slow  down;  we  steal  through  the  slip, 
Past  the  low  burning  lamp  and  with  quivering  lip 
Call  down  to  the  life-savers  cheering  us  on. 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  weary  throb  sends  us  straight  into  the  dawn, 
Fair  and  white  up  the  bay,  half  asleep,  all  adream, 
In  its  translucent  purple  and  pearl.    Just  a  gleam 
Out  there  of  the  earliest  sail;  here  the  curl 
Of  the  first  lazy  smoke  from  a  cabin  —  a  girl 
Loops  up  the  long  vines  at  the  doorway.     A  swirl 
Of  white  water  behind  us;  then  a  stir  at  the  dock. 
Steam  slowly!     The  headline  —  the  stern-line  —  the  shock 
As  we  swing  alongside,  and  across  the  plank  flock 
Wan  faces,  with  breath  still  a-quiver,  the  roar 
Of  the  night  still  above  and  about  them,  the  floor 
Still  uncertain;  but  over  the  grateful  brown  loam 
We  crowd  to  the  shore-boat  —  and  I'm  coming  home. 

And  away  to  the  north  over  depths  of  cool  green 
From  the  bluffs  overhead,  where  the  deep-set  ravine 
Digs  down  to  the  heart  of  the  wood,  while  a  stream 
Trickles  out  over  sands  drifting  white,  and  the  pier 
Reaches  out  through  the  water  to  meet  us.    We're  here! 

From  the  pier  to  the  boat-house  and  away  down  the  shore 
Flutters  back  to  the  group  at  the  old  farm-house  door 
The   word   that   I'm   coming.     And    from   wrinkled   old 

hands, 

As  the  dear  old  feet  toil  through  the  weary  white  sands, 
Bringing   welcome   and   welcome,   from    boat-house   and 

strand, 

The  hurrying,  white-winged  signals  all  come  — 
God  pity  the  mortal  who  has  never  come  home! 

And  I?     I'm  not  worth  it.     But  gray  eyes  and  blue, 
While  the  storms  beat  about  me,  O  dear  hearts  and  true, 

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THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Or  the  fogs  flinging  far,  blot  the  stars  from  the  blue, 
If  the  pole  star  leads  on  or  the  rudder  swings  true, 
It's  not  Heaven  I'm  after,  I  am  coming  to  you. 

But  Heaven  it  will  be  when  down  the  blue  dome 
Flutter  out  the  white  signals  that  I'm  coming  home. 

The  Century  Magazine  Elizabeth  Sewell  Hill 


103         We  who  were  Lovers  of  Life 

From  "  The  Story  of  Eleusis" 

WE  who  were  lovers  of  life,  who  were  fond  of  the 
hearth  and  the  homeland, 

Gone  like  a  drowner's  cry  borne  on  the  perilous  wind, 
Gone  from  the  glow  of  the  sunlight,  now  are  in  exile 

eternal, 
Strangers  sit  in  the  place  dear  to  us  once  as  our  own. 

Happy  are  they;  and  they  know  not  we  were  as  strangers 

before  them; 
Nay,  nor  that  others  shall  come:  Knowledge  belongs  to 

the  dead. 
Life  is  so  rich  that  the  living  look  not  away  from  the 

present; 
Eyes  that  the  sun  made  blind  learn  in  the  dusk  to  see. 

Once  we  had  friends,  we  had  kindred;  all  of  us  now  are 

forgotten, 

All  but  the  hero-kings,  lords  of  the  glory  of  war; 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

These,  with  the  founders  of  cities,  live  for  a  little  in  stories 
Told  of  the  deeds  they  did,  not  of  the  men  that  they 
were. 

Those  who  were  mighty  but  linger,  shadowy  forms  in  a 

legend; 
Never  the  minstrel's  tale  tells  what  they  were  to  their 

wives. 
None  on  the  lips  of  remembrance  live  as  their  children 

knew  thei 
Merged  in  the  darkness  kings  rank  with  the  recordless 

dead. 

Whether  our  lifetime  brought  to  us  joy  or  the  burden  of 
sorrow, 

Whether  in  youth  or  age,  all  when  we  come  from  the 
earth 

Clinging  to  memories  wander  slow  through  the  shadow- 
less  meadows, 

Dash  from  the  proffered  cup  Lethe's  oblivious  draught. 

Long  are  the  years  and  uncounted  passed  in  the  season- 
less  twilight 

Thinking  of  things  that  were,  feeling  the  ache  of  regret; 

Slowly  the  echoes  fade  and  the  homeland  hills  are  for 
gotten  : 

Over  the  flame-swept  waste  waters  of  healing  are  poured. 

Lovers  of  action,  lovers  of  sunlight,  rovers  of  ocean, 
Shepherds,  tillers  of  earth,  yea,  at  the  last  we  forget. 
Longer  a  woman  remembers  words  that  were  uttered  in 

moonlight, 

Girlhood's  vision  and  dream,  pitiful  things  of  the  home. 

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•     0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Here  by  the  rivers  of  Hades;  Phlegethon,  Acheron,  Lethe, 
Wisdom  comes,  and.  the  dead  judge  what  they  did  with 

their  lives: 

Never  the  clustering  vineyard  yielded  to  any  its  fulness  — 
Ah,  but  the  children  here  playing  their  desolate  games! 
The  Poetry  Review  of  America  Louis  V .  Ledoux 


104  Summons 

^  I  ^HE  eager  night  and  the  impetuous  winds, 

A     The  hints  and  whispers  of  a  thousand  lures, 
And  all  the  swift  persuasion  of  the  Spring, 
Surged  from  the  stars  and  stones,  and  swept  me  on. 
The  smell  of  honeysuckles,  keen  and  clear, 
Startled  and  shook  me,  with  the  sudden  thrill 
Of  some  well-known  but  half-forgotten  voice. 
A  slender  stream  became  a  naked  sprite, 
Flashed  around  curious  bends,  and  winked  at  me 
Beyond  the  turns,  alert  and  mischievous. 
A  saffron  moon,  dangling  among  the  trees, 
Seemed  like  a  toy  balloon  caught  in  the  boughs, 
Flung  there  in  sport  by  some  too-mirthful  breeze.  . 
And  as  it  hung  there,  vivid  and  unreal, 
The  whole  world's  lethargy  was  brushed  away; 
The  night  kept  tugging  at  my  torpid  mood 
And  tore  it  into  shreds.    A  warm  air  blew 
My  wintry  slothfulness  beyond  the  stars; 
And  over  all  indifference  there  streamed 
A  myriad  urges  in  one  rushing  wave.  .  .  . 
Touched  with  the  lavish  miracles  of  earth, 
I  felt  the  brave  persistence  of  the  grass; 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

The  far  desire  of  rivulets;  the  keen, 
Unconquerable  fervor  of  the  thrush; 
The  endless  labors  of  the  patient  worm; 
The  lichen's  strength;  the  prowess  of  the  ant; 
The  constancy  of  flowers;  the  blind  belief 
Of  ivy  climbing  slowly  toward  the  sun; 
The  eternal  struggles  and  eternal  deaths  — 
And  yet  the  groping  faith  of  every  root! 
Out  of  old  graves  arose  the  cry  of  life; 
Out  of  the  dying  came  the  deathless  call. 
And,  thrilling  with  a  new  sweet  restlessness, 
The  thing  that  was  my  boyhood  woke  in  me  — 
Dear,  foolish  fragments  made  me  strong  again; 
Valiant  adventures,  dreams  of  those  to  come, 
And  all  the  vague,  heroic  hopes  of  youth, 
With  fresh  abandon,  like  a  fearless  laugh, 
Leaped  up  to  face  the  heaven's  unconcern.  .  .  . 

And  then  —  veil  upon  veil  was  torn  aside  — 

Stars,  like  a  host  of  merry  girls  and  boys, 

Danced  gaily  'round  me,  plucking  at  my  hand; 

The  night,  scorning  its  ancient  mystery, 

Leaned  down  and  pressed  new  courage  in  my  heart; 

The  hermit-thrush,  throbbing  with  more  Song, 

Sang  with  a  happy  challenge  to  the  skies; 

Love,  and  the  faces  of  a  world  of  children, 

Swept  like  a  conquering  army  through  my  blood  — 

And  Beauty,  rising  out  of  all  its  forms, 

Beauty,  the  passion  of  the  universe, 

Flamed  with  its  joy,  a  thing  too  great  for  tears, 

And,  like  a  wine,  poured  itself  out  for  me 

To  drink  of,  to  be  warmed  with,  and  to  go 

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THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Refreshed  and  strengthened  to  the  ceaseless  fight; 
To  meet  with  confidence  the  cynic  years; 
Battling  in  wars  that  never  can  be  won, 
Seeking  the  lost  cause  and  the  brave  defeat. 

The  Century  Magazine  Louis  Untermeyer 


105  The  Dead 


THINK  you  the  dead  are  lonely  in  that  place? 
They  are  companioned  by  the  leaves  and  grass, 
By  many  a  beautiful  and  vanished  face, 

By  all  the  strange  and  lovely  things  that  pass. 
Sunsets  and  dawnings  and  the  starry  vast, 

The  swimming  moon,  the  tracery  of  trees  — 
These  they  shall  know  more  perfectly  at  last, 

They  shall  be  intimate  with  such  as  these. 
'T  is  only  for  the  living  Beauty  dies, 

Fades  and  drifts  from  us  with  too  brief  a  grace, 
Beyond  the  changing  tapestry  of  skies 

Where  dwells  her  perfect  and  immortal  face. 
For  us  the  passage  brief:  —  the  happy  dead 

Are  ever  by  great  beauty  visited. 

ii 

All  Souls'  Night!     Forth  from  their  dwelling  places 
They  cross  the  aching  and  uneasy  night, 

Seeking  old  doors  and  dear  remembered  faces, 
Peering  unseen  in  windows  where  a  light 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Falls  on  some  book  they  loved  or  on  some  chair 

Where  they  had  rested  many  a  night  ago; 
And  well  for  them  if  one  dear  face  be  there 

Whose  unforgetting  eyes  they  knew  —  and  know. 
Ah,  well  for  them  if  in  the  quiet  speech 

That  passes  round  the  low-burned  candle  flame, 
Some  old  familiar  tale  the  listeners  reach, 

And  silence  fall  about  a  spoken  name.  — 
Better  their  sleep  in  those  dim  dwelling  places, 

For  finding  remembered  and  remembering  faces. 

The  Forum  David  Morton 


106  We  Dead 

WHEN  from  the  brooding  home, 
The  silent  immemorial  love-house, 
The  beloved  body  of  the  mother  in  her  travail, 
Naked,  the  little  one  comes  and  wails  at  the  world's  bleak 

weather, 

We  say  that  on  Earth  and  to  us  a  child  has  been  born.  .  .  . 
But  now  we  move  with  unhal^ing  pace  toward  the  dark 

evening, 

And  toward  the  cold  lengthening  shadow, 
And  quick  we  avert  our  fearful  eyes  from  the  strange 

event, 

The  burial  and  the  bourne  .  .  . 
That  leaving  home:  the  end  .  .  .  death.  .  .  . 

Are  these  then  birth  and  death? 

Does  the  cut  of  a  cord   bring  life  and  dust  to  dust  ex 
punge  it? 
If  so,  what  are  we  then,  we  dead  ? 

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THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

For,  in  the  cities, 

And  dark  on  the  lonely  farms,  and  waifs  on  the  ocean, 

As  a  harrying  of  wind,  as  an  eddying  of  dust, 

We  dead,  in  our  soft  shining  bodies  that  are  combed  and 

are  kissed, 
Are  ghosts  fleeing  from  the  inescapable  hell  of  oursejves  .  .  . 

We  are  even  as  beetles  skating  over  the  waters  of  our 

own  darkness, 

Even  as  beetles,  darting  and  restless, 
But  the  depths  dark  and  void  .  .  . 

We  have  found  no  peace,  no  peace:  though  our  engines 

are  crafty: 

What  avail  wings  to  the  flier  in  the  skies 
While  his  dead  soul  like  an  anchor  drags  on  the  Earth? 
And  what  avails  lightning  darting  a  man's  voice,  linking 

the  cities, 

While  in  the  booth  he  is  the  same  varnished  clod, 
And  his  soul  flies  not  after? 
And  what  avails  it   that  the  body  of   man  has  waxed 

mammoth, 

Limbed  with  the  lightning  and  the  stream, 
While  his  spirit  remains  a  torment  and  a  trifle, 
And  gaining  the  world,  profits  nothing? 

Self-murdered,  self-slain,  the  dead  cumber  the  Earth.  .  .  . 
And  how  did  they  die? 

A  boy  was  born  in  the  pouring  radiance  of  creative  magic: 

And  with  pulses  of  music  he  was  born  .  .  . 

Of  himself  he  might  have  been  shaping  a  song-winged 

poet  .  .  . 
But  he  was  afraid.  .  .  . 

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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  feared  the  gaunt  garret  of  starvation  and  the  lonely 

years  in  his  soul's  desert, 

And  he  feared  to  be  a  jest  and  a  fool  before  his  friends.  .  .  . 
Now  he  clerks,  the  slave  .  .  . 
And  the  magic  is  slimed  with  disastrous  opiates  of  the  Night. 

A  girl  was  bathed  with  the  lissome  beauty  of  the  seeker 

of  love, 

The  call  of  the  animals  one  to  another  in  the  Spring, 
The  desire  of  the  captive  woman  in  her  heart,  as  she  ran 

and  leaped  on  the  hills; 
But  the  imprisoned  beast's  cry  terrified  her  as  she  looked 

out  over  the  love-quiet  of  the  modern  world  .  .  . 
Yet  she  desired  to  take  this  man-lure  and  release  it  into 

loveliness, 
Become  a  dancer,  lulling  with  witchcraft  of  her  young 

body  the  fevered  world 

But,  no,  her  mother  spied  here  a  wickedness.  .  .  . 
Shamefully  she  submitted,  making  a  smoldering  inferno 

of  the  hidden  Nymph  in  her  soul, 
And  so  died. 

A  woman  was  made  body  and   heart  for  the  beautiful 

love-life.  .  .  . 

But  of  the  mother-miracle, 

How  the  cry  of  a  troubled  child  whitens  the  red  passions, 
She  did  not  know.  .  .  . 
Fear  of  poverty  corrupted  her:  she  chose  a  fool  that  her 

heart  hated, 

And  now  through  him  no  release  for  her  native  passions, 
But  only  a  spending  of  her  loathsome  fury  on  adornment 

and  luxury.  .  .  . 
Ah,  dead  glory!  and  the  heart  sick  with  betrayal! 

285 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

There  is  no  grace  for  the  dead,  save  to  be  born  again: 
Engines  shall  not  drag  us  from  the  grave, 
Nor  wine  nor  meat  revive  us. 

For  our  thirst  is  a  thirst  no  liquor  can  reach  nor  slake, 

And  our  hunger  a  hunger  by  no  bread  filled.  .  .  . 

The   waters  we   crave   bubble   up   from    the   springs   of 

life, 
And  the  bread  we  would  break  comes  down  from  invisible 

hands. 

We  dead!  awake! 

Kiss  the  beloved  past  goodby, 

Go  leave  the  love-house  of  the  betrayed  self, 

And  through  the  dark  of  birth  go  and  enter  the  soul's 

bleak  weather.  .  .  . 
And   I,  I  will  not  stay  dead,  though  the  dead  cling  to 

me, 
I  will  put  away  the  kisses  and  the  soft  embraces  and  the 

walls  that  encompass  me, 
And  out  of  this  womb  I  will  surely  move  to  the  world  of 

my  spirit.  .  .  . 

I  will  lose  my  life  to  find  it,  as  of  old, 
Yea,  I  will  turn  from  the  life-lie  I  lived  to  the  truth  I 

was  wrought  for, 
And  I  will  take  the  creator  within,  sower  of  the  seed  of 

the  race, 
And  make  him  a  god,  shaper  of  civilization.  .  .  . 

Now  on  my  soul's  imperious  surge, 
Taking  the  risk,  as  of  death,  and  in  deepening  twilight, 
I  ride  on  the  darkening  flood  and  go  out  on  the  waters 
286 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Till  over  the  tide  comes  music,  till  over  the  tide  the 

breath 

Of  the  song  of  my  far-off  soul  is  wafted  and  blown, 
Murmuring  commandments.  .  .  . 

Storm  and  darkness!    I  am  drowned  in  the  torrent! 

I  am  moving  forth  irrevocably  from  the  sheltering  womb! 

I  am  naked  and  little! 

Oh,  cold   of  the  world,   and   light   blinding,   and   space 

terrifying! 

Now  my  cry  goes  up  and  the  wailing  of  my  helpless  soul: 
Mother,  my  mother! 

Lo,  then,  the  mother  eternal! 

In  my  opening  soul  the  footfall  of  her  fleeting  tread, 

And  the  song  of  her  voice  piercing  and  sweet  with  love  of 

me, 

And  the  enwinding  of  her  arms  and  adoring  of  her  breath, 
And  the  milk  of  her  plenty! 
Oh,  Life,  of  which  I  am  part;  Life,  from  the  depths  of 

the  heavens, 
That  ascended  like  a  water-spring  into  David  of  Asia  on 

the  eastern  hills  in  the  night, 
That  came  like  a  noose  of  golden  shadow  on  Joan  in  the 

orchard, 

That  gathers  all  life:  the  binding  of  brothers  into  sheaves, 
That  of  old,  kneelers  in  the  dust 
Named,  glorying:  Allah,  Jehovah,  God. 

The  Century  Magazine  James  Oppenheim 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


107  To  a  Dead  Soldier 

THOUGH  all  the  primrose  paths  of  morning  called 
Your  feet  to  follow  them,  and  all  the  winds 
Of  all  the  hills  of  earth,  with  plucking  hands 
Wooed  you  to  slopes  that  shone  like  emerald, 

You  might  not  go.     The  thin  green  grass  that  binds 
Your  feet  had  Earth  and  Death  to  forge  its  bands. 

The  rain's  wet  kiss  is  on  your  lips,  where  lay 
Once  the  live  pulses  of  a  woman's  soul; 

Your  eyes  give  back  unto  the  quiet  sky 

Only  the  sheen  of  stars,  the  glare  of  day, 
Or  darkness  when  the  kindly  shadows  roll 

Up  from  the  sea  to  hide  you  where  you  lie. 

No  woman's  whisper  holds  your  strong  heart  spent 
And  breathless.     All  the  silver  horns  that  blew 

While  legions  cheered,  are  still.     These  things  are  done, 

But  these  you  have:  a  death  for  monument, 
And  peace  you  died  to  buy,  and  after  you 

The  laughing  play  of  children  in  the  sun. 

The  Eliot  Literary  Magazine  Kendall  Harrison 


108         The  Death  of  the  Hired  Man 

MARY  sat  musing  on  the  lamp-flame  at  the  table 
Waiting  for  Warren.    When  she  heard  his  step, 
She  ran  on  tip-toe  down  the  darkened  passage 
To  meet  him  in  the  doorway  with  the  news 
And  put  him  on  his  guard.    "Silas  is  back." 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

She  pushed  him  outward  with  her  through  the  door 
And  shut  it  after  her.    "Be  kind,"  she  said. 
She  took  the  market  things  from  Warren's  arms 
And  set  them  on  the  porch,  then  drew  him  down 
To  sit  beside  her  on  the  wooden  steps. 

"When  was  I  ever  anything  but  kind  to  him? 

But  I'll  not  have  the  fellow  back,"  he  said. 

"I  told  him  so  last  haying,  did  n't  I? 

'If  he  left  then,'  I  said,  'that  ended  it.' 

What  good  is  he?    Who  else  will  harbor  him 

At  his  age  for  the  little  he  can  do? 

What  help  he  is  there's  no  depending  on. 

Off  he  goes  always  when  I  need  him  most. 

'He  thinks  he  ought  to  earn  a  little  pay, 

Enough  at  least  to  buy  tobacco  with, 

So  he  wron't  have  to  beg  and  be  beholden.' 

'All  right,'  I  say,  'I  can't  afford  to  pay 

Any  fixed  wages,  though  I  wish  I  could.' 

'Someone  else  can.'    'Then  someone  else  will  have  to. 

"I  should  n't  mind  his  bettering  himself 

If  that  was  what  it  was.    You  can  be  certain, 

When  he  begins  like  that,  there's  someone  at  him 

Trying  to  coax  him  off  with  pocket-money,  — 

In  haying  time,  when  any  help  is  scarce. 

In  winter  he  comes  back  to  us.    I'm  done." 

"Sh!  not  so  loud:  he'll  hear  you,"  Mary  said. 
"I  want  him  to:  he'll  have  to  soon  or  late." 

"He's  worn  out.    He's  asleep  beside  the  stove: 
When  I  came  up  from  Rowe's  I  found  him  here, 

289 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Huddled  against  the  barn-door  fast  asleep, 
A  miserable  sight,  and  frightening,  too  — 
You  need  n't  smile  —  I  did  n't  recognize  him  — 
I  was  n't  looking  for  him  —  and  he's  changed. 
Wait  till  you  see." 

"Where  did  you  say  he'd  been?" 

"He  did  n't  say.    I  dragged  him  to  the  house, 
And  gave  him  tea  and  tried  to  make  him  smoke. 
I  tried  to  make  him  talk  about  his  travels. 
Nothing  would  do:  he  just  kept  nodding  off." 

"What  did  you  say?    Did  he  say  anything?" 
"But  little." 

"Anything?    Mary,  confess 
He  said  he'd  come  to  ditch  the  meadow  for  me." 

"Warren!" 

"But  did  he?    I  just  want  to  know." 

"Of  course  he  did.    What  would  you  have  him  say? 
Surely  you  would  n't  grudge  the  poor  old  man 
Some  humble  way  to  save  his  self-respect. 
He  added,  if  you  really  care  to  know, 
He  meant  to  clear  the  upper  pasture,  too. 
That  sounds  like  something  you  have  heard  before? 
Warren,  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  the  way 
He  jumbled  everything.    I  stopped  to  look 
Two  or  three  times  —  he  made  me  feel  so  queer  — 
To  see  if  he  was  talking  in  his  sleep. 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

He  ran  on  Harold  Wilson  —  you  remember  — 
The  boy  you  had  in  haying  four  years  since. 
He's  finished  school,  and  teaching  in  his  college. 
Silas  declares  you'll  have  to  get  him  back. 
He  says  they  two  will  make  a  team  for  work: 
Between  them  they  will  lay  this  farm  as  smooth! 
The  way  he  mixed  that  in  with  other  things. 
He  thinks  young  Wilson  a  likely  lad,  though  daft 
On  education  —  you  know  how  they  fought 
All  through  July  under  the  blazing  sun, 
Silas  up  on  the  cart  to  build  the  load, 
Harold  along  beside  to  pitch  it  on." 

"Yes,  I  took  care  to  keep  well  out  of  earshot." 

"Well,  those  days  trouble  Silas  like  a  dream. 

You  would  n't  think  they  would.    How  some  things  linger! 

Harold's  young  college  boy's  assurance  piqued  him. 

After  so  many  years  he  still  keeps  finding 

Good  arguments  he  sees  he  might  have  used. 

I  sympathize.    I  know  just  how  it  feels 

To  think  of  the  right  thing  to  say  too  late. 

Harold's  associated  in  his  mind  with  Latin. 

He  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  Harold's  saying 

He  studied  Latin  like  the  violin 

Because  he  liked  it  —  that  an  argument! 

He  said  he  could  n't  make  the  boy  believe 

He  could  find  water  with  a  hazel  prong  — 

Which  showed  how  much  good  school  had  ever  done  him. 

He  wanted  to  go  over  that.    But  most  of  all 

He  thinks  if  he  could  have  another  chance 

To  teach  him  how  to  build  a  load  of  hay  —  " 

291 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

"I  know,  that's  Silas'  one  accomplishment. 

He  bundles  every  forkful  in  its  place, 

And  tags  and  numbers  it  for  future  reference, 

So  he  can  find  and  easily  dislodge  it 

In  the  unloading.    Silas  does  that  well. 

He  takes  it  out  in  bunches  like  big  birds'  nests. 

You  never  see  him  standing  on  the  hay 

He's  trying  to  lift,  straining  to  lift  himself." 

"He  thinks  if  he  could  teach  him  that,  he'd  be 
Some  good  perhaps  to  someone  in  the  world. 
He  hates  to  see  a  boy  the  fool  of  books. 
Poor  Silas,  so  concerned  for  other  folks, 
And  nothing  to  look  backward  to  with  pride, 
And  nothing  to  look  forward  to  with  hope, 
So  now  and  never  any  different." 

Part  of  a  moon  was  falling  down  the  west, 
Dragging  the  whole  sky  with  it  to  the  hills. 
Its  light  poured  softly  in  her  lap.    She  saw 
And  spread  her  apron  to  it.    She  put  out  her  hand 
Among  the  harp-like  morning-glory  strings, 
Taut  with  the  dew  from  garden  bed  to  eaves, 
As  if  she  played  unheard  the  tenderness 
That  wrought  on  him  beside  her  in  the  night. 
"Warren,"  she  said,  "he  has  come  home  to  die: 
You  need  n't  be  afraid  he'll  leave  you  this  time." 

"Home,"  he  mocked  gently. 

"Yes,  what  else  but  home 
It  all  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  home. 
Of  course  he's  nothing  to  us,  any  more 
Than  was  the  hound  that  came  a  stranger  to  us 
Out  of  the  woods,  worn  out  upon  the  trail." 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

"Home  is  the  place  where,  when  you  have  to  go  there, 
They  have  to  take  you  in." 

"I  should  have  called  it 
Something  you  somehow  have  n't  to  deserve." 

Warren  leaned  out  and  took  a  step  or  two, 
Picked  up  a  little  stick,  and  brought  it  back. 
And  broke  it  in  his  hand  and  tossed  it  by. 
"Silas  has  better  claim  on  us  you  think 
Than  on  his  brother?    Thirteen  little  miles 
As  the  road  winds  would  bring  him  to  his  door. 
Silas  has  walked  that  far  no  doubt  to-day. 
Why  did  n't  he  go  there?    His  brother's  rich, 
A  somebody  —  director  in  the  bank." 

"He  never  told  us  that." 

"We  know  it  though." 

"I  think  his  brother  ought  to  help,  of  course. 

I'll  see  to  that  if  there  is  need.     He  ought  of  right 

To  take  him  in,  and  might  be  willing  to  — 

He  may  be  better  than  appearances. 

But  have  some  pity  on  Silas.    Do  you  think 

If  he'd  had  any  pride  in  claiming  kin 

Or  anything  he  looked  for  from  his  brother, 

He'd  keep  so  still  about  him  all  this  time?" 

"I  wonder  what's  between  them?" 

"I  can  tell  you. 

Silas  is  what  he  is  —  we  would  n't  mind  him  — 
But  just  the  kind  that  kinsfolk  can't  abide. 

293 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

He  never  did  a  thing  so  very  bad. 

He  don't  know  why  he  is  n't  quite  as  good 

As  anyone.    He  won't  be  made  ashamed 

To  please  his  brother,  worthless  though  he  is." 

"/  can't  think  Si  ever  hurt  anyone." 

"No,  but  he  hurt  my  heart  the  way  he  lay 

And  rolled  his  old  head  on  that  sharp-edged  chair-back. 

He  would  n't  let  me  put  him  on  the  lounge. 

You  must  go  in  and  see  what  you  can  do. 

I  made  the  bed  up  for  him  there  to-night. 

You'll  be  surprised  at  him  —  how  much  he's  broken. 

His  working  days  are  done;  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"I'd  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  say  that." 

"I  have  n't  been.    Go,  look,  see  for  yourself. 
But,  Warren,  please  remember  how  it  is: 
He's  come  to  help  you  ditch  the  meadow. 
He  has  a  plan.    You  must  n't  laugh  at  him. 
He  may  not  speak  of  it,  and  then  he  may. 
I'll  sit  and  see  if  that  small  sailing  cloud 
Will  hit  or  miss  the  moon." 

It  hit  the  moon. 

Then  there  were  three  there,  making  a  dim  row, 
The  moon,  the  little  silver  cloud,  and  she. 

Warren  returned  —  too  soon,  it  seemed  to  her, 
Slipped  to  her  side,  caught  up  her  hand  and  waited. 

"Warren,"  she  questioned. 

"Dead,"  was  all  he  answered. 

The  New  Republic  Robert  Frost 

294 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


109  A  Handful  of  Dust 

I  STOOPED  to  the  silent  Earth  and  lifted  a  handful  of 
her  dust.  .  .  . 

Was  it  a  handful  of  humanity  I  held? 

Was  it  the  crumbled  and  blown  beauty  of  a  woman  or  a 
babe? 

For  over  the  hills  of  Earth  blows  the  dust  of  the  withered 
generations; 

And  not  a  water-drop  in  the  sea  but  was  once  a  blood- 
drop  or  a  tear: 

And  not  an  atom  of  sap  in  leaf  or  bud  but  was  once  the 
love-sap  in  a  human  being: 

And  not  a  lump  of  soil  but  was  once  the  rosy  curve  of  lip 
or  breast  or  cheek.  , 


Handful  of  dust,  you  stagger  me  ... 

I  did  not  dream  the  world  was  so  full  of  the  dead: 

And  the  air  I  breathe  so  rich  with  the  bewildering  past: 

Kiss  of  what  girls  is  on  the  wind  ? 

Whisper  of  what  lips  is  in  the  cup  of  my  hand? 

Cry  of  what  deaths  is  in  the  break  of  the  wave  tossed  by 

the  sea? 

I  am  enfolded  in  an  air  of  rushing  wings: 
I  am  engulfed  in  clouds  of  love-lives  gone.  .  .  . 
Who  leans  yonder?    Helen  of  Greece? 
Who  walks  with  me?    Isolde? 
The  trees  are  shaking  down  the  blossoms  from  Juliet's 

breast: 
And  the  bee  drinks  honey  from  the  lips  of  David.  .  . 

295 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Come,  girl,  my  comrade: 

Stand  close,  sun-tanned  one,  with  your  bright  eyes  lifted: 

Behold  this  dust  .  .  . 

This  is  you:  this  of  the  Earth  under  our  feet  is  you: 

Raised  by  what  miracle?  shaped  by  what  magic? 

Breathed  into  by  what  god? 

And  a  hundred  years  hence  one  like  myself  may  come, 

And  stoop,  and  take  a  handful  of  the  yielding  Earth, 

And  never  dream  that  in  his  palm 

Lies  she  that  laughed  and  ran  and  lived  beside  this  sea 

On  an  afternoon  a  hundred  years  before.  .  .  . 

Listen  to  the  dust  in  this  hand: 
Who  is  trying  to  speak  to  us? 

The  Century  Magazine  James  Oppenheim 


110    " /  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death" 

I  HAVE  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  some  disputed  barricade, 
When  Spring  comes  back  with  rustling  shade 
And  apple-blossoms  fill  the  air  — 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
When  Spring  brings  back  blue  days  and  fair. 

It  may  be  he  shall  take  my  hand 
And  lead  me  into  his  dark  land 
And  close  my  eyes  and  quench  my  breath  — 
It  may  be  I  shall  pass  him  still. 
I  have  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
On  some  scarred  slope  of  battered  hill, 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

When  Spring  comes  round  again  this  year 
And  the  first  meadow-flowers  appear. 

God  knows  't  were  better  to  be  deep 
Pillowed  in  silk  and  scented  down, 
Where  love  throbs  out  in  blissful  sleep, 
Pulse  nigh  to  pulse,  and  breath  to  breath, 
Where  hushed  awakenings  are  dear  .  .  . 
But  I've  a  rendezvous  with  Death 
At  midnight  in  some  flaming  town, 
When  Spring  trips  north  again  this  year, 
And  I  to  my  pledged  word  am  true, 
I  shall  not  fail  that  rendezvous. 
The  North  American  Review  Alan  Seeger 


111  The  Secret 

THEY  drew  the  blinds  down,  and  the  house  was  old 
With  shadows,  and  so  cold, 
Filled  up  with  shuddery  silence  like  held  breath. 
And  when  I  grew  quite  bold 
And  asked  them  why,  they  said  that  this  was  death. 

They  walked  tiptoe  about  the  house  that  day 

And  turned  their  heads  away 

Each  time  I  passed.     I  sat  down  in  surprise 

And  quite  forgot  to  play, 

Seeing  them  pass  with  wonder  in  their  eyes. 

My  mother  came  into  my  room  that  night 
Holding  a  shaded  light 

297 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Above  my  face  till  she  was  sure  I  slept; 

But  I  lay  still  with  fright, 

Hearing  her  breath,  and  knowing  that  she  wept. 

And  afterward,  with  not  a  one  to  see, 

I  got  up  quietly 

And  tried  each  step  I  made  with  my  bare  feet 

Until  it  seemed  to  me 

That  all  the  air  grew  sorrowful  and  sweet. 

So  without  breathing  I  went  down  the  stair, 

In  the  light  chilly  air, 

Into  the  parlor,  where  the  perfumes  led, 

I  lit  my  candle  there 

And  held  it  a  long  time  above  my  head. 

There  was  an  oblong  box,  and  at  its  base 

Grew  lilies  in  a  vase 

As  white  as  they.     I  thought  them  very  tall 

In  such  a  listening  place, 

And  they  threw  fearful  shadows  on  the  wall. 

I  tiptoed  to  the  box,  then,  silently, 

To  look  what  death  could  be; 

And  then  I  smiled,  for  it  was  father  who 

Was  sleeping  quietly, 

He  dreamed,  I  think,  for  he  was  smiling,  too. 

And  all  at  once  I  knew  death  is  a  thing 
That  stoops  down,  whispering 
A  dear,  forgotten  secret  in  your  ear 
Such  as  the  winds  can  sing. 

And  then  you  sleep  and  dream  and  have  no  fear. 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Perhaps  the  winds  have  told  the  dream  to  flowers 

On  nights  of  lonely  hours; 

Perhaps  we,  too,  could  learn  if  we  could  seek 

The  wind  in  his  watch-towers; 

Perhaps  the  lilies  knew,  but  could  not  speak. 

The  Century  Magazine  Frederick  Faust 

112  Scintilla 


I 


KISSED  a  kiss  in  youth 
Upon  a  dead  man's  brow; 
And  that  was  long  ago,  — 
And  I'm  a  grown  man  now. 

It's  lain  there  in  the  dust, 

Thirty  years  and  more:  — 
My  lips  that  set  a  light 

At  a  dead  man's  door! 
The  Crisis  William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

113  Sleep 

WHERE  do  I  go 
Down  roads  of  sleep, 
Behind  the  blue-brimmed  day? 
No  more  I  know  her  silvered  sweep 
Nor  colors  clear  nor  gray, 
Nor  women's  ways 
Nor  those  of  men, 
Nor  blame,  nor  praise. 
Where  am  I,  then? 

299 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


ii 

Oh,  fragrantly 

The  airs  of  earth  arise 

In  waking  hours  of  light, 

While  vagrantly 

Sea  symphonies 

Of  changing  sound  surprise; 

Till  for  a  space  one  goes 

Beyond  the  salt  and  snows 

And  claimant  tides  along  the  wide-stretched  beach, 

Beyond  the  last,  faint  reach 

Of  odor,  sight  and  sound,  far  forth  —  far  forth  — 

Where  neither  South  nor  North 

Points  down  the  roads  unguessed, 

Where  East  is  not,  nor  West: 

At  night  down  roads  of  sleep, 

Of  dreamless  sleep, 

Past  all  the  compassed  ways  the  reason  tells, 

To  unknown  citadels. 

in 

Just  as  one  turns,  and  while  day's  dusk-breathed  blue 
And  music,  many-dappled,  merge  in  flight, 
Half  in  a  dream,  one  finds  a  tale  is  true 
That  down  one's  memory  sings,  still  and  light. 
Just  as  the  spirit  turns, 
Half-dreaming  one  discerns 
Deeply  the  tale  is  true 
That  long  ago  one  knew: 
Of  how  a  mermaid  loved  a  mortal  knight; 
And  how,  unless  she  died,  she  still  must  change, 
300 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

And  leave  his  human  ways,  and  go  alone 
At  intervals  where  seas  unfathomed  range 
Through  coral  groves  around  the  ocean's  throne, 
Where  cool-armed  mermaids  dive  through  crystal  hours, 
And  braid  their  streaming  hair  with  pearls,  and  sing 
Among  the  green  and  clear-lit  water  flowers, 
The  lucent  splendors  of  their  ocean  king. 

IV 

Like  hers  our  ways  on  earth, 
Who,  from  our  day  of  birth, 
Would  die,  unless  we  slept  — 
Must  die,  unless  for  hours, 
Beyond  our  senses'  powers, 
Down  soundless  space  we  leapt. 


Beyond  the  deepest  roll 
Of  pain's  and  rapture's  sweep, 
Where  goes  the  human  soiil 
That  vanishes  in  sleep? 

VI 

Down  dreamless  paths  unguessed,  beyond  the  senses' 

powers, 

Beyond  the  breath  of  fragrance,  sound  and  light, 
As  once  through  crystal,  unremembered  hours 
The  mermaid  dived  who  loved  a  mortal  knight: 
Far  forth  —  far  forth  — 
Beyond  the  South  or  North, 

301 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Past  all  the  compassed  ways  the  day  has  shown, 
To  live  divine  and  deep  at  night  down  roads  of  sleep, 
In  citadels  unknown. 

Poetry :  A  Magazine  of  Verse  Edith  Wyatt 


114  A  Memorial  Tablet 

Oh,  Agathocles^  fare  thee  well! 
"AKED  and  brave  thou  goest 


N' 


Without  one  glance  behind! 
Hast  thou  no  fear,  Agathocles, 
Or  backward  grief  of  mind? 

The  dreamy  dog  beside  thee 
Presses  against  thy  knee; 

He,  too,  oh,  sweet  Agathocles, 
Is  deaf  and  visioned  like  thee. 

Thou  art  so  lithe  and  lovely 
And  yet  thou  art  not  ours. 

What  Delphic  saying  compels  thee 
Of  kings  or  topless  towers  ? 

That  little  blowing  mantle 

Thou  losest  from  thine  arm  — 

No  shoon  nor  staff,  Agathocles, 
Nor  sword,  to  fend  from  harm! 

Thou  hast  the  changed  impersonal 

Awed  brow  of  mystery  — 
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OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Yesterday  thou  wast  burning, 
Mad  boy,  for  Glaucoe. 

Philis  thy  mother  calls  thee: 
Mine  eyes  with  tears  are  dim, 

Turn  once,  look  once,  Agathocles  — 
(The  gods  have  blinded  him.} 

Come  back,  Agathocles,  the  night  — 
Brings  thee  what  place  of  rest? 

Wine-sweet  are  Glaucoe's  kisses, 
Flower-soft  her  budding  breast. 

He  seems  to  hearken,  Glaucoe, 
He  seems  to  listen  and  smile; 

(Nay,  Philis,  but  a  god-song 
He  follows  this  many  a  mile.) 

Come  back,  come  back,  Agathocles  I 

(He  scents  the  asphodel; 
Unearthly  siuift  he  runneth.) 

Agathocles,  farewell! 
Scribner's  Magazine        Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 


115  Epitaph 

HERE  lies  the  flesh  that  tried 
To  follow  the  spirit's  leading; 
Fallen  at  last,  it  died, 

Broken,  bruised  and  bleeding, 
Burned  by  the  high  fires 
Of  the  spirit's  desires. 

303 


0 
THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

It  had  no  dream  to  sing 

Of  ultimate  liberty; 
Fashioned  for  suffering, 

To  endure  transiently, 
And  conscious  that  it  must 
Return  as  dust  to  dust. 


It  blossomed  a  brief  hour, 
Was  rosy,  warm  and  strong; 

It  went  like  a  wilted  flower, 
It  ended  like  a  song, 

Some  one  closed  a  door  — 

And  it  was  seen  no  more. 


The  grass  is  very  kind; 

(It  knows  so  many  dead!) 
Those  whom  it  covers  find 

Their  wild  hearts  comforted; 
Their  pulses  need  not  meet 
The  spirit's  speed  and  heat. 

Here  lies  the  flesh  that  held 
The  spirit  prisoner  — 

A  caged  thing  that  rebelled, 
Forced  to  subminister; 

Broken  it  had  to  be; 

To  set  its  captive  free. 

It  is  very  glad  to  rest, 

It  calls  to  roots  and  rain, 
304 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Safe  in  its  mother's  breast, 

Ready  to  bloom  again. 
After  a  day  and  an  hour 
'T  will  greet  the  sun  a  flower. 
The  New  York  Times  Louise  Dr  is  coll 


116  Comrades 

WHERE  are  the  friends  that  I  knew  in  my  Maying, 
In  the  days  of  my  youth,  in  the  first  of  my  roaming  ? 
We  were  dear;  we  were  leal;  O,  far  we  went  straying; 
Now  never  a  heart  to  my  heart  comes  homing!  — 
Where  is  he  now,  the  dark  boy  slender 

Who  taught  me  bare-back,  stirrup  and  reins? 
I  loved  him;  he  loved  me;  my  beautiful,  tender 
Tamer  of  horses  on  grass-grown  plains. 

Where  is  he  now  whose  eyes  swam  brighter, 

Softer  than  love,  in  his  turbulent  charms; 
Who  taught  me  to  strike,  and  to  fall,  dear  fighter, 

And  gathered  me  up  in  his  boyhood  arms; 
Taught  me  the  rifle,  and  with  me  went  riding, 

Suppled  my  limbs  to  the  horseman's  war; 
Where  is  he  now,  for  whom  my  heart's  biding, 

Biding,  biding  —  but  he  rides  far! 

O  love  that  passes  the  love  of  woman! 

Who  that  hath  felt  it  shall  ever  forget, 
When  the  breath  of  life  with  a  throb  turns  human, 

And  a  lad's  heart  is  to  a  lad's  heart  set? 

305 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Ever,  forever,  lover  and  rover  — 

They  shall  cling,  nor  each  from  other  shall  part 
Till  the  reign  of  the  stars  in  the  heavens  be  over, 

And  life  is  dust  in  each  faithful  heart! 

They  are  dead,  the  American  grasses  under; 

There  is  no  one  now  who  presses  my  side; 
By  the  African  chotts  I  am  riding  asunder, 

And  with  great  joy  ride  I  the  last  great  ride. 
I  am  fey;  I  am  fain  of  sudden  dying; 

Thousands  of  miles  there  is  no  one  near; 
And  my  heart  —  all  the  night  it  is  crying,  crying 

In  the  bosoms  of  dead  lads  darling-dear. 

Hearts  of  my  music  —  them  dark  earth  covers; 

Comrades  to  die,  and  to  die  for,  were  they; 
In  the  width  of  the  world  there  were  no  such  rovers  — 

Back  to  back,  breast  to  breast,  it  was  ours  to  stay; 
And  the  highest  on  earth  was  the  vow  that  we  cherished, 

To  spur  forth  from  the  crowd  and  come  back  never 

more, 
And  to  ride  in  the  track  of  great  souls  perished 

Till  the  nests  of  the  lark  shall  roof  us  o'er. 

Yet  lingers  a  horseman  on  Altai  highlands, 

Who  hath  joy  of  me,  riding  the  Tartar  glissade; 
And  one,  far  faring  o'er  orient  islands 

Whose  blood  yet  glints  with  my  blade's  accolade; 
North,  west,  east,  I  fling  you  my  last  hallooing, 

Last  love  to  the  breasts  where  my  own  has  bled; 
Through  the  reach  of  the  desert  my  soul  leaps  pursuing 

My  star  where  it  rises  a  Star  of  the  Dead. 

Scribners  Magazine  George  Edward  Woodberry 

306 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 


117     They  went  Forth  to  Battle,  but  they 
always  Fell 

THEY  went  forth  to  battle,  but  they  always  fell; 
Their  eyes  were  fixed  above  the  sullen  shields; 
Nobly  they  fought  and  bravely,  but  not  well, 
And  sank  heart-wounded  by  a  subtle  spell. 
They  knew  not  fear  that  to  the  foeman  yields, 
They  were  not  weak,  as  one  who  vainly  wields 
A  futile  weapon;  yet  the  sad  scrolls  tell 
How  on  the  hard-fought  field  they  always  fell. 

It  was  a  secret  music  that  they  heard, 

A  sad  sweet  plea  for  pity  and  for  peace; 
And  that  which  pierced  the  heart  was  but  a  word, 
Though  the  white  breast  was  red-lipped  where  the  sword 
Pressed  a  fierce  cruel  kiss,  to  put  surcease 
On  its  hot  thirst,  but  drank  a  hot  increase. 
Ah,  they  by  some  strange  troubling  doubt  were  stirred, 
And  died  for  hearing  what  no  foeman  heard. 

They  went  forth  to  battle  but  they  alway  fell; 

Their  might  was  not  the  might  of  lifted  spears; 
Over  the  battle-clamor  came  a  spell 
Of  troubling  music,  and  they  fought  not  well. 

Their  wreaths  are  willows  and  their  tribute,  tears; 

Their  names  are  old  sad  stories  in  men's  ears; 
Yet  they  will  scatter  the  red  Hordes  of  Hell, 
Who  went  forth  to  battle  and  always  fell. 

The  Forum  Shaemas  0  Sheet 

307 


0 

THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 


118  The  Unknown  Brothers 

SINGING  band  by  song  united 
When  the  blue  ^Egean  plains 
Girdled  isles  where  lovers  lighted 

Lamps  in  Kypris'  seaward  fanes; 
Singing  Brothers,  earth  enfolden, 
What  of  you  and  of  your  olden 
Music  now?    What  still  remains? 

Scattered  blooms,  surviving  only 
As  the  petal  holds  the  rose, 

In  the  garden  where  the  lonely 
Scarlet  flower  of  Sappho  blows; 

And  of  some  no  single  token  — 

Leaf  or  bud,  or  blossom  broken  — 
Now  the  mounded  garden  shows. 

Was  there  lack  of  exaltation 
In  the  burden  of  their  song? 

Had  they  less  of  consecration? 
Proved  the  path  of  Beauty  long? 

Did  they  pause  for  pleasant  resting? 

Swerve  or  falter  in  their  questing? 
Have  the  ages  done  them  wrong? 

Some  there  may  have  been  who  faltered 

By  the  bright  ^Egean  foam, 
Seeing  life  with  vision  altered 
As  the  soul  forgot  its  home; 
308 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Some  it  may  be  in  confusion, 
After  youth's  divine  illusion, 
Turned  to  till  the  kindly  loam. 

Some  there  are  in  all  the  ages 

Lonely  vigil  fail  to  keep; 
Some  allured  by  wisdom's  pages 

Chart  the  sky  and  sound  the  deep; 
Some  give  up  the  long  foregoing  — 
Human  touches,  reaping,  sowing  — 

Some  with  Sappho  take  the  leap. 

But  the  most  wait  unrepining, 

Hopeful  when  all  hope  is  fled, 
For  fulfilment  of  the  shining 

Dawn  that  lingers  far  ahead, 
And,  by  paths  of  no  returning 
Where  the  hearth-fires  are  not  burning, 

March  companioned  by  the  dead. 

Through  neglect  or  loud  derision, 
Mocked  at  by  the  worldly-wise, 

Bearing  burdens  of  misprision, 
Seeking  truth  and  finding  lies, 

Follow  they  the  glow  or  glimmer 

Of  the  vision  growing  dimmer 
As  the  death-mist  fills  their  eyes. 

Never  can  you  be  requited, 

Unknown  Brothers,  staunch  and  brave; 
You  the  bitter  gods  have  slighted, 

Only  half  their  gift  they  gave, 

309 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

Gave  the  patience  of  endeavor, 
Kept  fruition  back  forever, 
Felled  the  cypress  by  your  grave. 

You  are  passed,  but  unknown  brothers, 

Finding  faith  of  small  avail, 
Follow  now  as  followed  others, 

And  I  pause  to  bid  them  hail. 
Brothers  are  they  in  believing, 
Some  it  may  be  are  achieving, 

But  they  triumph  though  they  fail. 
The  Bookman  Louis  V.  Ledoux 


119          The  Monk  in  the  Kitchen 


ORDER  is  a  lovely  thing; 
On  disarray  it  lays  its  wing, 
Teaching  simplicity  to  sing. 
It  has  a  meek  and  lowly  grace, 
Quiet  as  a  nun's  face. 
Lo  —  I  will  have  thee  in  this  place! 
Tranquil  well  of  deep  delight, 
Transparent  as  the  water,  bright  — 
All  things  that  shine  through  thee  appear 
As  stones  through  water,  sweetly  clear 
Thou  clarity, 
That  with  angelic  chanty 
Revealest  beauty  where  thou  art, 
Spread  thyself  like  a  clean  pool. 
310 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

Then  all  the  things  that  in  thee  are, 
Shall  seem  more  spiritual  and  fair, 
Reflection  from  serener  air  — 
Sunken  shapes  of  many  a  star 
In  the  high  heavens  set  afar. 

II 

Ye  stolid,  homely,  visible  things, 
Above  you  all  brood  glorious  wings 
Of  your  deep  entities,  set  high, 
Like  slow  moons  in  a  hidden  sky. 
But  you,  their  likenesses,  are  spent 
Upon  another  element. 
Truly  ye  are  but  seemings  — 
The  shadowy  cast-off  gleamings 
Of  bright  solidities.    Ye  seem 
Soft  as  water,  vague  as  dream; 
Image,  cast  in  a  shifting  stream. 

in 

What  are  ye? 

I  know  not. 

Brazen  pan  and  iron  pot, 

Yellow  brick  and  gray  flag-stone 

That  my  feet  have  trod  upon  — 

Ye  seem  to  me 

Vessels  of  bright  mystery. 

For  ye  do  bear  a  shape,  and  so 

Though  ye  were  made  by  man,  I  know 

An  inner  Spirit  also  made 

And  ye  his  breathings  have  obeyed. 

3" 


THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY 

.  /  *  '  '       "     :  .         "•    " 

IV 

Shape,  the  strong  and  awful  Spirit, 

Laid  his  ancient  hand  on  you. 

He  waste  chaos  doth  inherit; 

He  can  alter  and  subdue. 

Verily,  he  doth  lift  up 

Matter,  like  a  sacred  cup. 

Into  deep  substance  he  reached,  and  lo 

Where  ye  were  not,  ye  were;  and  so 

Out  of  useless  nothing,  ye 

Groaned  and  laughed  and  came  to  be. 

And  I  use  you,  as  I  can, 

Wonderful  uses,  made  for  man, 

Iron  pot  and  brazen  pan. 


What  are  ye? 

I  know  not; 

Nor  what  I  really  do 

When  1  move  and  govern  you. 

There  is  no  small  work  unto  God. 

He  requires  of  us  greatness; 

Of  his  least  creature 

A  high  angelic  nature, 

Stature  superb  and  bright  completeness. 

He  sets  to  us  no  humble  duty. 

Each  act  that  he  would  have  us  do 

Is  haloed  round  with  strangest  beauty 

Terrific  deeds  and  cosmic  tasks 

Of  his  plainest  child  he  asks. 

When  I  polish  the  brazen  pan 


OF  MAGAZINE  VERSE 

I  hear  a  creature  laugh  afar 

In  the  gardens  of  a  star, 

And  from  his  burning  presence  run 

Flaming  wheels  of  many  a  sun. 

Whoever  makes  a  thing  more  bright, 

He  is  an  angel  of  all  light. 

When  I  cleanse  this  earthen  floor 

My  spirit  leaps  to  see 

Bright  garments  trailing  over  it, 

A  cleanness  made  by  me. 

Purger  of  all  men's  thoughts  and  ways, 

With  labor  do  I  sound  Thy  praise, 

My  work  is  done  for  Thee. 

Whoever  makes  a  thing  more  bright, 

He  is  an  angel  of  all  light. 

Therefore  let  me  spread  abroad 

The  beautiful  cleanness  of  my  God. 

VI 

One  time  in  the  cool  of  dawn 

Angels  came  and  worked  with  me. 

The  air  was  soft  with  many  a  wing. 

They  laughed  amid  my  solitude 

And  cast  bright  looks  on  everything. 

Sweetly  of  me  did  they  ask 

That  they  might  do  my  common  task 

And  all  were  beautiful  —  but  one 

With  garments  whiter  than  the  sun 

Had  such  a  face 

Of  deep,  remembered  grace; 

That  when  I  saw  I  cried  —  "Thou  art 

The  great  Blood-Brother  of  my  heart. 

313 


THE  fiOLDEN  TREASURY 

Where  have  I  seen  thee?"  —  And  he  said, 

"When  we  are  dancing  round  God's  throne, 

How  often  thou  art  there. 

Beauties  from  thy  hands  have  flown 

Like  white  doves  wheeling  in  mid  air. 

Nay  —  thy  soul  remembers  not? 

Work  on,  and  cleanse  thy  iron  pot." 

VII 

What  are  we?    I  know  not. 
The  Craftsman  Anna  Hempstead  Branch 


120  Doors 

LIKE  a  young  child  who  at  his  mother's  door 
Runs  eager  for  the  welcoming  embrace, 
And  finds  the  door  shut,  and  with  troubled  face 
Calls  and  through  sobbing  calls,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Calling,  storms  at  the  panel  —  so  before 
A  door  that  will  not  open,  sick  and  numb, 
I  listen  for  a  word  that  will  not  come, 
And  know  at  last,  I  may  not  enter  more. 

Silence!    And  through  the  silence  and  the  dark 
By  that  closed  door,  the  distant  sob  of  tears 

Beats  on  my  spirit,  as  on  fairy  shores 
The  spectral  sea;  and  through  the  sobbing,  hark! 
Down  the  fair-chambered  corridor  of  years, 
The  quiet  shutting,  one  by  one,  of  doors. 
The  North  American  Review  Hermann  Hagedorn 


INDEX   OF   AUTHORS 

Aikcn,  Conrad 47,  139 

Baker,  KarL-  Wilson 30 

iae  I.oc 255 

r.i-:i«'l.  William  R(.-e 201 

llraitlnvaite,  William  Stanley 109,.  110,  111,  299 

Branch,  Anna  HempsU-ad 232,  310 

Burnet,  Dana 117,  150 

Burr,  Amelia  Josephine 215,253 

Bynncr,  Witter 16,  31,  76,  269 

Carman,  Bliss 20,  270 

father,  Willa  Sibert 51,  132 

Cleghorn,  Sara  N 34 

Coates,  Florence  Karle 19,  131 

Crapsey,  Adelaide 74,  75 

Duriran,  Olive  Tilford 1,12,54 

Driscoll,  Louise 303 

Erskine,  John 143 

Evans,  Donald 116 

Evans,  Florence  Wil!-.in--<>n 302 

Faust,  Frederick        297 

Fisher,  Mahlon  Leonard 269 

Fletcher,  John  Gould 247 

Frost,  Robert      16,  29,  59,  90,  288 

Giltinan,  Caroline 258 

Hagcdorn,  Hermann 314 

Harrison,  Kendall 288 

Hill,  Elizabeth  Sowell • 275 

Hughan,  Jessie  Wallace 76 

Johns,  Orrick 31,36 

Jones,  Jr.,  Thoma>  S 8 

Kilmer,  Joyce 9(  272 

Ledoux,  Louis  V 5,  215,  278.  308 

Lee,  Agnes  .  58,  261 

Lindsay.  Vachel      86,  96,  250 

Lowell  Amy 43,  157,  203,  210 

Mackayc.  Percy 81,  186 

315 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 

Mann,  Dorothea  Lawrence 6 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee 136,  238 

Middleton,  Scudder 151 

Mitchell,  Ruth  Comfort 112,  154,  217 

Morton,  David 282 

Norton,  Grace  Fallow 71 

O'Brien,  Edward  J 23,  261 

O'Neil,  David 72,  73,  74 

Oppenheim,  James 234,  283,  295 

O  Sheel,  Shaemas 78,  104,  307 

Patton,  Margaret  French 63 

Peabody,  Josephine  Preston 65,  94,  152 

Piper,  Edwin  Ford 228 

Robinson,  Corinne  Roosevelt 20 

Robinson,  Edwin  Arlington      £8,  106,  184,  227 

Sandburg,  Carl 232 

Scollard,  Clinton 105,  134 

Seeger,  Alan 296 

Shepard.  Odell 39 

Stevens,  Wallace 39 

Syford,  Ethel 53 

Teasdale,  Sara 1,  37,  51 

Tietjens,  Eunice 68 

Torrence,  Ridgcly 70,  207,  220.  259,  262 

Towne,  Charles  Hanson 50 

Twitchell,  Anna  Spencer 62 

Untermeyer,  Louis 9,  280 

Wharton,  Edith 260 

Wheelock,  John  Hall '. 26,42 

Woodberry,  George  Edward 22,37,305 

Wright,  Cuthbert 33 

Wyatt,  Edith 260 


3l6 


INDEX    OF   POEMS 


Adventurer,  The 

Amaze 

An  Astronomer      

Ash  Wednesday 

Autochthon 

Bncchante  to  Her  Babe,  The  . 

Barter 

Battle  Sleep 

Birches 

Bird  and  the  Tree,  The    .    .    . 

Bonfire,  The 

Broken  Field,  The 

Cassandra 

Chinese  Nightingale,  The    .    . 

Cinquains 

City  of  Falling  Leaves,  The    . 

Clerk,  The 

Coming  Home 

Comrades 

Cool  Tombs 

Cradle  Song 

Dead,  The 

Death  of  the  Hired  Man,  The 

Dog.  A 

Doors 

Earth 

Emilia 

Epitaph 

Evensong . 

Evensong 

Exit      

Eye-Witness 

Field  of  Glory,  The 

Fight 

Flammonde 

Flight,  The.   . 


OdrllShepard    .    .  . 

Adelaide  Crapscy  .  . 

David  O'Ncil     .    .  . 
John  Erskinc    . 


29 
75 
72 
143 


Edgar  Lee  Masters    ....  238 

Eunice  Tietjcns 68 

Sara  Tcasdale i 

Edith  Wliarton 260 

Robert  Frost 16 

Ridgely  Torrence 207 

Robert  Frost 90 

Sara  Teasdale 51 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  88 

Va-hd  Lindsay 96 

Adelaide  Crapsey 74 

Amy  Lowell 210 

Scudder  Middlcton    ....  151 

Elizabeth  Sewell  n ill    ...  275 

George  Edward  Woodberry  .  305 

Carl  Sandburg 233 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  65 

Da-oil  Morton 282 

Robert  Frost 288 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  152 

Hermann  Ilagzdorn  ....  314 

John  Hall  Whcdock     ...  26 

Sarah  N.  Cleg/torn    ....  34 

Louise  Driscoll 303 

Conrad  A ikcn 47 

Ridgely  Torrence 259 

William  Stanley  Brailltwaite  110 

Ridgely  Torren:e 220 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  184 

Percy  Maekaye 186 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  106 

George  Edward  Woodberry  .  22 

317 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 


l-'rom  a  Motor  in  May 

Gayheart,  a  Story  of  Defeat 

General  William  Booth  Enters  into  Heaven 

Gift  of  God,  The 

Good  Company 

"Grandmither,  Think  Not  I  Forget"    .    .    . 

Grieve  Not,  Ladies 

Guns  as  Keys:  And  the  Great  Gate  Swings 

Handful  of  Dust,  A 

Harvest-Moon:  1914 

He  Whom  a  Dream  Hath  Possessed  .... 

Heights,  The 

Hill  Wife,  The 

Horse-Thief,  The 

Hungarian  Love-Lament 

Hymn  to  Demeter 

"T  Have  a  Rendezvous  with  Death"     .    .    . 

"Immortal  Love" 

In  the  Roman  Forum 

Indian  Pipe 

Interpreter,  The 

1777 

King  of  Dreams,  The 

Landscapes 

Laughing  it  Out 

Lesser  Children,  The 

Letters  from  Egypt 

Likeness,  A 

Lincoln 

Look,  The  ... 

Magic 

Meanwhile 

Memorial  Tablet,  A 

Memories  of  Whitman  and  Lincoln   .... 

Messages 

Miracles 

Monk  in  the  Kitchen,  The 

Motherhood 

Mountain  Gateway,  A 

Moods 

Moon-Shadows 

New  Platonist,  The 

Needle-Travel    .... 

Night  Court,  The 


Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson  2 

Dana  Burnet 11 

Vacliel  Lindsay 25 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  22 

Karle  Wilson  Baker     ...  3 

W 'ilia  Sibert  Gather  ....  5 

Anna  Ilempstcad  Branch     .  23 

A  my  Lowell 15 

James  Oppenhcim     ....  29 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody  .  9 

Shaemas  0  Sheet 10 

David  O'Ncil 9 

Robert  Frost 5 

William  Rose  Benct ....  20 

Ethel  Syford 5 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

Alan  Seeger 29 

George  Edward  Woodbcrry  .  3 

Amelia  Josephine  Burr    .    .  21 

Florence  Earle  Coates   ...  1 

Orrick  Johns 3 

A  my  Lowell 20 

Clinton  Scollard 10 

Louis  Untermeyer     .... 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  1 1 

Ridgely  Torrence 26 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 21 

Willa  Sibert  Gather  ....  13 

J ohn  Gould  Fletcher  .    ...  24 

Sara  Teasdale 3 

Edward  J.  O'Brien  ....  2 

Edwin  Ford  Piper    ....  22 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans   .  30 

James  Oppenhcim     ....  23 

Da-jidO'Neil 7 

Conrad  A  iken 13 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch     .  31 

Agnes  Lee 5 

Bliss  Carman    ......  2 

David  O'Neil 7 

Adelaide  Crapsey 7 

Cuthbert  Wright    .....  3 

Margaret  French  Patton  .    .  6 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitcliell .    .    .  15 


INDEX  OF   POEMS 


Night  Winds 

November 

On  a  Copy  of  Keats'  "Endymion"  .    . 

Old  Fairingdown 

Onus  Probandi 

Over  Night,  A  Rose 

Path-Flower 

Patterns 

Peter  Quince  at  the  Clavier 

Poppies,  The 

Regents'  Examination,  The 

Road  not  Taken,  The 

Samson  Allen 

Sandy  Star 

School 

Scintilla 

Sculptured  Worship 

Sea-Lands,  The 

Secret,  The 

Silence • 

Sin  Eater,  The 

Sleep 

Solitude 

Son,  The 

Song 

St.  John  of  Nepomuc 

Statue  in  a  Garden,  A 

Summons 

Susanna  and  the  Elders 

Thanksgiving  for  Our  Task 

They  went  Forth  to  Battle,  but  they  always 

Fell 

Thrush  in  the  Moonlight,  A 

To  a  Dead  Soldier 

To  a  Hermit  Thrush 

To  a  Logician 

To  a  Phoebe-Bird 

To  Imagination      

To  Xo  One  in  Particular 

Train-Mates 

Trees 

Triad 

The  Trumpet-Vine  Arbor 

Twelve-Forty-Five,  The  .    .    . 


Adelaide  Crapsey 75 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fisher   .    .  269 

Clinton  Scollard 134 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  54 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  111 

Caroline  Giltinon 258 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  1 

Amy  Lowell  ....[..  43 

Wallace  Stevens 39 

A  mclia  Josephine  Burr    .    .  253 

Jessie  Wallace  Huglian    .    .  76 

Robert  Frost 29 

Donald  Evans 116 

William  Stanley  Braitlnvaile  109 

Percy  Mackayc 81 

William  Stanley  Braithwaitc  299 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  109 

Or  rick  Johns 31 

Frederick  Faust 297 

Elgar  Lee  Masters    ....  136 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell .    .    .  217 

Edith  Wyatt 299 

David  O'Ncil     .......  74 

Rid gel y  Torrcnce 70 

Edward  J.  O'Brien  ....  261 

Ruth  Comfort  Mite  hell .    .    .  112 

Agues  Lee 261 

Louis  Untermeyer     ....  280 

Adelaide  Crapsey 75 

Sliaemas  0  Sheel 78 

Shaemas  0  Sited 307 

Witter  Bynner 269 

Kendall  Harrison 288 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  12 

Dana  Burnct 150 

Wilier  Bynner 16 

Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann    .  6 

Wiitcr  Bynner 31 

Witter  Bynner 76 

Joyce  Kilmer 9 

Adelaide  Crapsey 74 

Amy  Lowell 208 

Joyce  Kilmer 272 

319 


INDEX  OF   POEMS 


Two  Songs  in  Spring 

Unconquered  Air,  The 

Unknown  Beloved,  The 

Unknown  Brothers,  The 

Vase  of  Chinese  Ivory,  A 

Waiting 

Warning,  The 

Way,  The 

We  Dead 

We  who  were  Lovers  of  Life    .... 

Wife,  The 

Winter  Scene,  The 

With  Cassock  Black,  Baret  and  Book 

Yankee  Doodle 

Yellow  Clover    . 


Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.  .    .    .  8 

Florence  Earle  Coates   ...  131 

John  Hall  Wheelock     ...  42 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 308 

David  O'Neil 72 

Charles  Hanson  Towne    .    .  50 

Adelaide  Crapsey 75 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  1 1 1 

James  Oppenheim     ....  283 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 278 

Anna  Spencer  Twitchell  .    .  62 

Bliss  Carman 270 

Grace  Fallow  Norton     ...  71 

Vachel  Linisay 86 

Katharine  Lee  Bates     .        .  255 


320 


INDEX    OF   FIRST   LINES 


Alone  

A  Red-cap  sang  in  Bishop's  wood 

Beauty  calls  and  gives  no  warning  .... 

Blackbird,  blackbird  in  the  cage 

Blessed  with  a  joy  that  only  she 

Booth  led  boldly  with  his  big  brass  drum  . 

Call  Rose  Costara! 

Come  sprite,  and  dance!  The  sun  is  up  .  . 
Cold  man,  in  whom  no  animating  ray  .  .  . 

Dawn  this  morning  burned  all  red 

Down  by  the  railroad  in  a  green  valley  .  . 
Due  East,  far  West.  Distant  as  the  nests  of 

opposite  winds  .  .  .  : 

Dweller  among  leaves,  and  shining  twilight 

boughs  

Ebb  on  with  me  across  the  sunset  tide.  .  . 
Eager  night  and  the  impetuous  winds  .  .  . 
Gayheart  came  in  June,  I  saw  his  heels  .  . 
Grandmither,  think  not  I  forget,  when  I 

come  back  to  town 

Grasshopper,  your  fairy  song 

Half  way  up  the  Hemlock  valley  turnpike  . 
Hark  ye!  Hush  ye!  Margot  's  dead!  .  .  . 
Hark  you  such  sound  as  quivers?  Kings 

will  hear 

Has  not  the  glamoured  season  come  once 

more 

He  could  not  tell  the  way  he  came  .... 

He  did  not  come  in  the  red  dawn 

He  had  a  whim,  and  laughed  it  out  .... 

He  plodded  along 

He  sees  the  wife,  from  slim  young  comeliness 
He  whom  a  dream  hath  possessed  knoweth 

no  more  of  doubting 

Here  in  the  lonely  chapel  I  will  wait  .  .  . 
Here  lies  the  flesh  that  tried  . 


David  O'Neil 73 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  1 

RiJgely  Torren:e 259 

Rilgely  Torren:e 207 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  227 

Va:hcl  Linhay 250 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  .    .    .  154 

Eunice  Tistjens 68 

Dana  Burnct 150 

Vachel  Lindsay 86 

Ridgely  Torrejice 220 

Amy  Lowell 157 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  12 

Edward  J.  O'Brien  ....  261 

Louis  Untcrmeyer     ....  280 

Dana  Burnet 117 

WUla  Sibert  Catlter  ....  51 

John  Hall  Whzclock      ...  26 

Sarah  N.  Clcgharn    ....  34 

Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell  .    .    .  217 

Mahlon  Leonard  Fislter   .    .  269 

Clinton  Scollard 134 

William  Stanley  Bra:l!:wa:t;  1 1 1 

OddlShepard 29 

William  Stanley  Bra:thwiits  110 

Da-jii  O'Neil 73 

Anna  Spencer  Twit :hc'.l  .    .  62 

SkaemasO  Sited 101 

JohnErs'tin: 143 

Louise  Driscoll 303 

321 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


"How,  how,"  he  said.     "Friend  Chang,"  I 

said 

I  dreamed  I  passed  a  doorway 

I  have  a  rendezvous  with  death 

I  have  known  the  silence  of  the  stars  and  of 

the  sea 

I  heard  an  old  farm-wife 

I  heard  one  who  said:  "Verily,  

I  kissed  a  kiss  in  youth 

I  know 

I  know  a  vale  where  I  would  go  one  day  .  . 

I  ran  into  the  sunset  light 

I  sit  at  home  and  sew 

I  stooped  to  the  silent  earth  and  lifted  a 

handful  of  dust 

I  think  that  I  shall  never  see 

I  walk  down  the  garden  paths 

I  was  a  goddess  ere  the  marble  found  me .  . 
In  a  rude  country  s<jme  four  thousand  miles 
In  came  the  moon  and  covered  me  with 

wonder 

In  every  line  a  supple  beauty 

In  the  heart  of  the  forest  arising 

In  the  middle  of  August  when  the  south 

west  wind 

In  the  museum 

In  the  pale  mauve  twilight,  streaked  with 

orange  

In  the  very  early  morning  when  the  light 

was  low 

Jock  bit  his  mittens  off  and  blew  his  thumbs 

Just  as  my  fingers  on  these  keys 

Just  now 

Last  summer  I  Columbused  John,  in  Prague, 

that  deadly  Bush  League  town 

Leaves  fall 

Life  has  loveliness  to  sell 

Life  a  gaunt,  scraggly  pine 

Like  a  young  child  who  at  his  mother's  door 
Lilacs  shall  bloom  for  Walt  Whitman  .  .  . 
Locate  your  love,  you  lose  your  love.  .  .  . 
Lord  Gabriel,  wilt  thou  not  rejoice  .... 
Mary  sat  musing  on  the  lamp-flame  at  the 

table 

322 


Vachel  Lindsay     . 
John  Hall  Wheelock 
Alan  Seeger   .   .   . 


Edgar  Lee  Masters    .... 

Ridgely  Torrence 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  . 
William  Stanley  Brailhwaite 

Adelaide  Crapsey 

Bliss  Carman 

Edward  J.  O'Brien  .... 
Margaret  French  Pat  ton  .    . 

James  Oppenheim     .... 

Joyce  Kilmer 

Amy  Lowell 

Agnes  Lee 

Edgar  Lee  Masters    .... 

Witter  Bynner 

Willa  Sibcrt  Gather  .... 
Florence  Earle  Coates   .   .    . 

Ridgely  Torrence 

David  O'Neil     . 


Conrad  Aiken 


Orrick  Johns  .   .    . 
Percy  Mackaye 
Wallace  Stevens.    . 
Adelaide  Crapsey  . 


Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell.    .    , 

Amy  Lowell , 

Sara  Tcasdale , 

John  Gould  Fletcher  .    .    .    , 
Hermann  Hagedorn  ... 
James  Oppenheim     .    .    . 

Witter  Bynmr 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

Robert  Frost  . 


INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 


Mary,  the  Christ  long  slain,  passed  silently 
Memphis  and  Karnak,  Luxor,  Thebes,  the 

Nile 

Muffled  sounds  of  the  city  climbing  to  me 

at  the  window 

Must  I,  who  walk  alone 

My  soul  is  a  dark  ploughed  field 

Naked  and  brave  thou  goest 

No,  his  exit  by  the  gate 

Xo  more  from  out  the  sunset 

Nothing  but  beauty,  now 

O  beauteous  boy  a-dream,  what  visions 

sought  

O  little  buds  all  bourgeoning  with  Spring.  . 
O  thou  who  clot  host  thyself  in  mystic  form 
O  wild  Heart,  track  the  land's  perfume  .  . 

Oh,  grieve  not,  Ladies,  if  at  night 

Oh,  let's  go  up  the  hill  and  scare  ourselves 
Old  Hezekiah  leaned  hard  on  his  hoe  .  .  . 

On  a  lone  hillside 

One  ought  not  to  have  to  care 

Order  is  a  lovely  thing 

Others  endure  Man's  rule:  he  therefore  deems 

Our  loves  as  flowers  fall  to  dust 

Outside  hove  Shasta,  snowy  height  on  height 

Over  the  twilight  field  . 

Singing  band  by  song  united 

So,  back  again? 

Soft  as  a  treader  on  mosses 

Some  must  delve  when  the  dawn  is  nigh  .  . 
Somewhere,  O  sun,  some  corner  there  must 

be 

Still  as 

Strephon  kissed  me  in  the  Spring 

That  over  ni^'ht  a  rose  could  come  .... 
The  August  sun  had  still  two  houis  of  sky  . 
The  leaves  of  Autumn  and  the  buds  of  Spring 
The  man  Flammonde,  from  God  knows 

where 

The  old 

The  rain  was  over,  and  the  brilliant  air  .  . 
The  rutted  roads  are  all  like  iron;  skies  .  . 
The  sickle  is  dulled  of  the  reaping  and  the 

threshing-floor  is  bare      


Agnes  Lee 58 

Louis  V.  Lcdoux 215 

Jessie  Wallace  II  whan    .    .  76 

Katharine  Lee  Bates .    ...  255 

Sara  Teasdalc 51 

Florence  Wilkinson  Evans  .  302 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  \  10 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite  1 1 1 

A  mdia  Josephine  Burr    .    .  215 

Dorothea  Lawrence  Mann    .  6 

Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr.  .    .    .  8 

George  Edward  Woodbcrry  .  37 

George  Edward  Woodbcrry  .  22 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch    .  232 

Robert  Frost 90 

Percy  Mackaye 81 

David  O'Neil 72 

Robert  Frost 59 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch     .  310 

Florence  Earle  Coatcs   ...  131 

Cuthbert  Wright 33 

Witter  Bynner 76 

Josephine  Preston  Pcabody  .  94 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 308 

Josephine  Preston  Pcabody  .  152 

Olive  Tilford  Dargan    ...  54 

Clinton  Scollard 105 

Edith  Wharton 260 

Adelaide  Crapsey 74 

Sara  Teasdale 37 

Caroline  Giltinan 258 

Edwin  Ford  Piper    ....  228 

Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson .  20 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  .  106 

Adelaide  Crapsey 75 

Louis  Untermeyer     ....  9 
Bliss  Carman    .                   .270 


Shaemas  0  Sheel 


78 


323 


INbEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


The  throats  of  the  little  red  trumpet-flowers 

are  wide  open 

The  zones  of  warmth  around  his  heart  . 
There  he  moved,  cropping  the  grass  at  the 

purple  canyon's  lip 

There  was  the  drum  he  played  so  poorly 

These  be 

They  drew  the  blinds  down,  and  the  house 

was  old 

They  have  hauled  in  the  gang-plank.    The 

breast-line  crawls  back 

They  say  the  cranes  last  night  did  cry 
They  went  forth  to  battle,  but  they  always 

fell 

This  is  the  garden  of  our  joyous  care 
Though  all  the  primrose  paths  of  morning 

called 

To-day  I  have  grown  taller  from  walking 

with  the  trees 

Twilight  is  spacious,  near  things  in  it  seem  far 
Two  and  two  are  four,  four  and  three  are 

seven    

Two  roads  diverged  in  a  yellow  wood 
Under  the  eaves,  out  of  the  wet 
War  shook  the  land  where  Levi  dwelt 
We  who  were  lovers  of  life,  who  were  fond 

of  the  hearth  and  home  land 
Weave  the  dance,  and  raise  again  the  sacred 

chorus  

When  Abraham  Lincoln  was  shoveled  into 

the  tombs 

When  from  the  brooding  home 

When  I  see  birches  bend  to  left  and  right 

Where  are  the  friends  that  I  knew  in  my 

Maying 

Where  I  go '    ' 

With  cassock  black,  baret  and  book  .... 
Within  the  Jersey  City  shed 
Would  I  were  on  the  sea-lands 

Why  do 

Youth!    . 


Amy  Lowell 

William  Stanley  Braithwaite 

William  Rose  Benet  .... 

Donall  Evans 

Adelaide  Crapsey  .... 

Frederick  Faust 

Elizabeth  Sewell  Hill    ... 
Ethel  Syford '    . 

Shaemas  0  Sheel   .... 
Amelia  Josephine  Burr    .    . 

Kendall  Harrison 

Karle  Wilson  Baker     ... 
Conrad  Aiken 

Scudder  Middleton    .... 

Robert  Frost 

Witter  Bynner 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson  . 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

Louis  V.  Ledoux 

Carl  Sandburg 

James  Oppenhcim     .... 
Robert  Frost 

George  Edward  Woodberry  . 

Edith  Wyatt 

Grace  Fallow  Norton    ... 

Joyce  Kilmer 

Orrick  Johns 

Adelaide  Crapsey  ... 
David  0  'Neil     ... 


324 


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